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The script

1,293

Beneath the shelves, rails run parallel -- part of a mobile racking system.

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Between the leaves and graffiti, a small etching of a heart.

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Beware, CASCADE. You have seen how easily you can be shelved. As soon as your assignment is over, all bets are off.

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Beyond fogged glass, the bustle of the city.

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Beyond lies a mountainside layered with residential buildings.

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Beyond the toll gate and the bridge lies the Hill of Pigs.

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Big circle.

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Bin collection schedule plastered over with hand-lettered ads.

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Blood-red banners for Supreme Leader Nestor.

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Blooms nurtured by affection and regular pruning.

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Boardgames with pieces set up for three players.

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Boats cut through a film of algae and petrol on the water's surface.

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Boats pass underneath your feet, worming their way through the secret capillaries of the city.

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Bomb wanted to see what was inside.

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Books of photography. Elegant studies of furniture and the male form.

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Both the radio and TV are on, the latter is muted.

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Bottled water, meal bars, wipes. Supplies for an extended stay.

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BOURGEOIS.

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BOURGEOIS.

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BOURGEOIS.

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Boxes have taken over the place of patients in this office.

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Boxes of fried shrimp from a long-closed chain restaurant.

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Brass antiques huddle together, their forms carved by hands long gone.

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Broken pipes, an old pneumatic system.

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Building abandoned, sign vandalised beyond recognition.

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Buildings packed so close you could climb from this window to the one opposite.

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BUILT ON FALSEHOODS, DESTINED TO CRUMBLE.

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Bureaucrat of the month awards, gathering dust.

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Buried. Dead.

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Cabinet doors have been ripped from their hinges.

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Can't believe we missed the shrimp party.

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Canal water licks the sides; boatless, faintly sulfurous.

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Candles laid for the blood of their enemies.

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Cardboard stacks of magazine back issues -- doomed to soak.

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Cargo and supplies left where they fell.

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Cellulose-fat silverfish scatter as you approach.

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Charms for luck, health, and repeat business.

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Cheap aluminium steps collapsed under their own weight.

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Children's clothes, a boy and a girl, drying in the sun.

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Children's clothes, left out to dry -- now wet, again.

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Chip grease smeared on chins, then sleeves.

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Chunky, sticky buttons. Relics of a tactile world filled with pleasant clacks.

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Cigarettes -- the remains of a habit put to rest.

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Cinema seats, plucked at the root.

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Cleverly modified to pick up pirate radio broadcasts.

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Clinks and chuckles echoing. Two shadows toasting to the abyss.

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Clinks, fading quickly. A small life fleeing your alien presence.

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Clothes and bedding becoming one.

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Clumps of wet hair crowd around the drain.

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Cobblestones awash in early morning lights. Vespar hovers by the Fogged Mirror's doors, his cap tilted against the drizzle.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 9 of 26