Coordination

Ramses' body, breathing softly.

A shade in a leather jacket thrusts a decapitated head towards the reader -- its lolling tongue and dripping viscera a promise of what's…

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

"Hello again."

You return to the shrine under the stairs.

"Back again, are we?"

"How goes it, H?"

The cat lounges.

The door looms before you once more.

"Long time, no speaky, nameless one."

The gate stands before you, still locked.

There they all are, just as you left them.

One more phone, one more voice.

Light refracts within your cornea; you are someone else, somewhere else.

"Operant."

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

"Go on, Hersh. You'll give us away."

The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.

M.I.H.O.'s report on inter-matter phasing is still there, and still tempting.

"Spare me the bleating you call an accent and listen up: metoprolol, you eunuch-diddling Azzurri. That's what I paid for -- not atenolol!"…

"Back again."

"I believe... this is where I'm supposed to offer you a deal."

It may be able to take your weight.

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

Lovers have scratched their initials into the railing.

An obelisk of felt and ribbon.

A stack of glossy, neat files. Too perfect to rifle.

Mud-slick, treacherous ground.

A deep groove in the couch cushion nearest to the phone.

Practically licked clean.

More faded notes have fallen behind the console than remain taped to the wall.

An old TV balanced precariously on a rounded fridge.

Could jump this easily. You just don't need to.

Floorboards coming for your balance. Don't let them take it.

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

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

The latent need to untangle these wires, an itch in the back of your brain.

Must have spry knees for such a fashionably low bedframe.

The glint of a glass bottle -- miraculously unbroken.

Big circle.

Someone's yanked the receiver right off its cord.

Flimsy latch on that drawer. Wouldn't be hard to pop.

You can make that jump with your eyes closed.

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

This was originally a photo developing lab, but you may twist it to suit your needs.

Tickets for a losing match, torn to shreds.

Somebody tried to climb these.

The ladder disappears into bushy hillside.

Bomb wanted to see what was inside.

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