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The script

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Ahead, the electric hum and rhythmic clatter of an aero-tram station.

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Air conditioners mostly dormant; in a few months, the hum will be deafening.

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All around, shadows leer, studying you with cold attention.

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All his worldly possessions, protected by rubble.

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All the colors are faded on these

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Already picked over for the good bits.

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Amid the chaos and disrepair, the ghost of what this room used to look like emerges for a moment:

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Among the many sections of the cabinet you find a small stack of papers. The first page is filled with what looks like a set of printed…

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An ad for a new film. The release date was six months ago.

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An ad for secondhand pelota equipment, 'Match Tested'.

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AN AD FOR THE MEN IN HIGH TOWERS.

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An aging telephone, scorched on the hob side.

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An array of electronics watches over you.

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An array of pylons traces a curve out of your line of sight.

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An assortment of cargo crates sits in waiting, adorned with faint chalk marks and bright yellow labels.

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An assortment of junk mail.

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An attempt at salvage gone horribly wrong.

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An enthusiastic approach to electrical engineering.

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An entire water tank just for one apartment.

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An exposed ventilation pipe, big enough for a fool to crawl through.

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An identification plate above the door has been pried off.

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An imbalance in your step -- the platform tilts to the east.

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An immovable concrete island.

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An interior view over the hall. The cityscape would spoil the aesthetic.

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An invitation to protest the demolition of the Palace of Culture.

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An obelisk of felt and ribbon.

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An offering.

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An old boiler, radiating authority if not heat.

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An old ladder. Caked in dried bird shit.

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An old TV balanced precariously on a rounded fridge.

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An open air play about Admiral Rigau starts shows here next month.

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An open cash register, ransacked.

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An unlocked cabinet.

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An unopened beer, cold and inviting, has been left on the table.

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An unusually quiet child watches through the bars as people shuffle past.

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Animal footprints in the sandy soil.

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Another inscrutable acronym. What could it mean?

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Another plastic wolf cup in your hand. As before, '1/6' is stamped on the hard bottom.

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Another tuktuk forfeit to engine failure.

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Are we trying to fuck it?

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Armour for weak spot. Take it -- yours now.

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As the tide ebbs, more of the sunken statue's face reveals itsef.

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As you press down on the intercom button, a little light comes on.

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AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.

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Badly sun damaged, you can just make out the station name 'Calle del Partido'.

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Bagman gestures wildly on the television screen. This is the ad for the Reality Situation you've seen before.

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Be the shroud the city needs. Walk the streets, snuffing out lanterns and hope. Be an acolyte of Gloom and spread the word.

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Beautiful electricity flows through this box.

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Beds beneath a canopy, erected less carefully than the one over the equipment.

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Behind the advertisement -- a path.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 8 of 26