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The script

1,293

The apparatus this controlled no longer exists.

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The arteries of this forgotten machine.

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The automat continues its electronic meditation.

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The beaded curtain neatly splits public and private spheres.

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The beam of your flashlight near blinds you with its reflection.

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The bed looks cold and dishevelled.

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The bed welcomes you for a soft slumber.

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The bin is no longer hungry.

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The bin should be put out of its misery.

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The blue bird stares at you

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The bomb is where you left it, looking completely innocuous.

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The bomb tore right through metal.

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The bottom of the boat is filled with abalone shells.

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The brightly-coloured cans and cigarette packets seem even more vivid upon your return.

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The brightly-coloured refreshments seem even more vivid upon your return.

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The broken door's still trying to block your path.

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THE BUILDING IS A GREAT BEAST, THE WATER ITS LIFE'S BLOOD.

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The building noticeboard stands beside a communal area, full of ads and scraps of daily lives.

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The building's sleeping breath is visible in the cool air.

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The bulb burns a white dot into your vision.

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The carabinero and his controller are deep in conversation.

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The cat lounges.

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The chair looks sad, somehow.

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The chair looks soft and expensive.

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The chair screams as it's dragged across the floor.

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The chair waits before you, sagging and forlorn.

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THE CHILDREN HAVE BEEN LEFT TO FLOUNDER.

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The city stretches out beneath you, alive.

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The city's industrial skeleton crooks a finger at you -- come hither.

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The cleaning tuk-tuk with its soap bubbles and secrets seems almost prestigious now.

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The clinic's metal door is scabbed with rust and surrounded by graffiti. An official looking sign hangs to the right of it.

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The cold dregs of an espresso.

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The container is empty.

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The container is still overfull with rubbish.

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The control panel glows steadily, its purpose fulfilled.

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The control unit idles in its cradle, lights softened to a tired glow.

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The corner of a bright candy bag peeks from the box, beckoning.

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The crumpled paper should crinkle in your hand, but it doesn't, stained with something rancid and dank.

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The cuddly dolphin gazes at the wall with the blank stare of a war veteran.

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The desk is as you left it.

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The details have all but worn off.

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The diagnosis line reads CLOSETED HOMOSEXUAL.

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The doctor has probably no need for it.

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The door is still bolted shut from the inside.

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The door looms before you once more.

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THE DOOR TO THE BASEMENT REFUSES TO DECLARE ITSELF.

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The edges of objects peeking out offer intimations of the wasteland beyond.

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The Editor-in-Chief's desk is somewhat orderly. A few notebooks and proofs, a terminal, and a collection of pens -- laid out side by side.

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The ever-present churn of the printing press echoes off high ceilings.

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The face in the murky water -- gaunt, hollow, yours.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 19 of 26