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The script

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The strange noise is coming from here.

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The structure here is buckling, walkway's unstable overhead.

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The sun begins its slow retreat behind the western housing complexes. The day is dying.

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The sun burns off the last of the morning fog. The day is clear. The people of Quisach district go about their lives.

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The surface of the window bends light oddly.

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The symbol of Portofiro's pride.

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The tabletop is splattered with the drying blood of your old friend.

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The tarp clings to the railing, stiff with long-dried oil stains.

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The toilet is still hung on the wall above the bar, a place of great honour -- a reminder of the Ceramic Panic of 83.

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The toilet seat is up.

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The toothy likeness of Sweet Nestor sneers at you from the stucco wall.

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The track goes round and round forever. You can't escape its logic, so you may as well embrace it.

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The tram stop's once-ornate staircase now just looks wobbly.

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The tram's logo is a wombat -- friendly and approachable.

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The tree has fulfilled its task. Now time for you to fulfill yours.

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The trio goes silent at your return.

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The turnstiles don't budge; the station's shut for 'improvements'.

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The TV exhales warm air from vents at its back.

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The two teenage girls refuse to look at you.

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The unnatural and somehow high-pitched smell of burnt plastic.

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The vandalised jukebox is where you left it, looking slightly more dispirited on second visit.

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The vending machine awaits your selection, yet seems utterly indifferent to it.

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The vendor won't look at you. He recoils slightly as you step closer.

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The violet night comes on like a stain. The full moon makes its stately procession as, one by one, the first of the fixed stars reveal…

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The wall is slightly discoloured where the Jefa Red & Black poster once was.

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The wall where Bagman once stared at you is now blank.

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THE WANG GUIDE TO IMPROVISED FIREARMS, VOL 2.

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The weight of the thesis threatens to strain your hand muscles.

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The wind carries their faint, sweet smell.

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The wind combs through yellowed grass. Around you, old foundations and half-built walls lean crooked against the sky.

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The wind in the juniper smells like early spring.

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The wind whistles a tune as it passes.

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The window is fogged from the inside.

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The words '66 Wolves' flash across the screen.

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The world expands and contracts like god's lungs. Birds fall silent. The eternal circular march of clock hands grind to a halt, forming a…

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The world is yours, if you dare. The only thing stopping you is your ovine adherence to the rules.

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Theatre 5. You passed 1-4 on the way up.

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THERE ARE NO KINGS IN PORTOFIRO.

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There are so many places to disappear here.

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There is always a a darkness to doctor's offices, a certain worldly detachment.

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There is enough space beyond the railing to walk along the crumbling wall.

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There is no answer.

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There is no response, just the sound of your own breath against cool plastic.

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There is nothing more for you here.

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There is nothing more to see here.

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There they all are, just as you left them.

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There they are! The carabinero and his controller, like Ignatz said.

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There was barely any mess to speak of. The room is functionally unchanged.

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There's a first aid box on the high shelf.

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There's a signed Ultra Violeta record on the turntable.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 22 of 26