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The script

1,293

Someone's personal stash.

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Someone's yanked the receiver right off its cord.

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Something at this party triggered the neolithic urge to build a henge.

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Something catches your eye...

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Something is rooting through the bin in the alley below.

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Something reflective glints inside the barrel.

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Something shiny in the dark below.

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Something shrine-like about this pagoda.

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Something's in there.

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Sometimes, at sunrise, Lucia comes up here for a cigarette.

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Space enough for strangers to eat together in comfortable silence.

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Spewing hot air. Hasn't been turned off for a long time.

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Stacked fast, abandoned halfway.

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Staring at you blind across a gulf of alcohol poisoning.

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Stashed rations. Frantic hoarding against an endless winter.

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Static. Someone needs to clamber to the roof, jostle the antennae.

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Statues, huddled together. Makes you feel sorry for them.

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Steel levers, frozen mid-pull.

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Steel stairs, worn smooth. Something attracts more than just the upper residents.

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Sticky papers, messy.

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Still a long way to the top.

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Still smells like fire.

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Stopping abruptly by the Honour book stall, your double HOLOCENE opens the duffel bag he has been carrying with him and begins depositing…

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Straps with steel ratchets. No getting out of that.

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Strict speed limits imposed on canal traffic.

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Submechanophobia: the fear of sunken manmade objects.

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Sunlight never reaches these apartments.

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Suppress Absolute Magnitute

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Supremely easy to swipe.

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Surgical lights -- modern ones.

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Survive Your Acquaintance: a series on exotic animal care.

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Swallow you whole.

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Tadpoles swarm at the water's edge, longing to climb the embankment.

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Tagged in marker pen; fast-fading.

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Tally marks -- rations and calories. Survival calculated by the month.

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Teal drapes hang still, remembering old stains -- and bracing for ones to come.

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Teenagers huddle into the stall, trying to be brave. A squeak from the corner sends them fleeing.

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Teenagers sulk in the bandstand, idle and irreverent.

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Televised boxing's taken off in recent years.

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Tempo's angular handwriting mars the noticeboard like black stab wounds.

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Tempo's office should be behind this door.

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Ten feet away, overarm toss. You could get any trash in this can.

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Tetanus waiting to happen.

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That trolley is for future archaeologists.

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The 'MIHO' fax mentioned Sub-Level 4. This is it.

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The 'OPEN/CLOSED' sign is subject entirely to Constanz' whims.

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The abandoned cardboard moving boxes remain in the corner of the little apartment.

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The act of trespassing fills you with smug satisfaction.

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The air is a sticky haze of fryer grease and sausage steam.

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The amount of anti-music this player has endured would have broken a lesser stereo.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 18 of 26