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The script

1,293

A fine spray of mist coats your eyelashes.

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A flash of a young boy, feet dangling, bracing for a needle in a cold office.

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A flash of yellow catches your eye.

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A foam rest, dented with the memory of Portofiro's backsides.

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A gesture to the idea of 'water safety'.

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A giant cat lazes on a mountainside, licking blood from its paws.

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A giant made of concrete, long defeated.

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A giant squid, transmuted into metal.

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A glare of light behind you obliterates your reflection's face.

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A glistening, fungal tapestry spreads quietly.

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A good target for voyeurs.

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A graveyard of hollowed out shells.

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A great corner to take a piss in.

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A grey, gelatinous slime thrives at the bottom of the rusted pails.

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A half-finished cup of tea. No steam.

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A heart-shaped control panel boasts of six different jet speeds and colours.

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A hooded teenager steps back to admire her work.

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A house drawn in crayon by either a child or an idiot.

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A hypersensitive security system. Hopefully nobody can afford it.

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A jazz record with only a series of shapes where the album title should be.

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A jumble of discs from artists you've never heard of.

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A kingfisher keeps watch from the high branches.

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A label. This is apartment #3.

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A ladder hugs the edge of the canal, rust eating at its rungs. Darkened patches show where the water level has risen, lowered, then risen…

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A larder, full of food and well-leafed psychology textbooks.

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A large X over an article about extraterrestrial life.

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A large, multi-fuel stove. Cold in the summer.

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A lattice of shadows, like the bars of a cage.

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A line of reflective scarlet catches the light within the box.

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A list of birthdays and addresses, held by a fish-shaped magnet.

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A lock like you'd see on a diary -- easily snapped.

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A lone housefly buzzes in the fridge, ecstatically trapped.

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A lonely break spot.

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A lot of cat hair. It must store its treasure here.

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A low hiss emits from the tank, sets your teeth on edge.

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A low-tech barrier.

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A low, tilting shelf marked in heavy block letters: 'DESPISED SUBGENRES'.

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A luscious display.

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A magazine. Every word is circled.

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A map of the carving identifies each hero.

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A mass of soft animals.

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A mattress behind the music stall. The owner lives here.

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A metal number is nailed on the door, reading #2.

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A mid-range stereo system, set to standby mode.

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A middle-aged woman looks up at you from the water.

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A Mircean background makes you a natural for in-theatre work across the Developed World.

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A MISSING PERSON poster. So faded that the missing person is missing from it.

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A modern word processor, complete with 7-segment display.

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A moorhen studies you intently from beyond the glass.

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A motley collection. The title 'Make Yourself Un-unfuckable' jumps out at you.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 5 of 26