Coordination

A soapy outline of someone's back.

You sway on your feet in time with the bobbing boat.

Rustamian letters, written in a hand so shaky the characters threaten to break apart.

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

A short clamber down to the loamy shore.

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

A sports bag, but no sports gear inside. Weak.

Tetanus waiting to happen.

You could probably make these yourself if they were useful or nice.

Nothing can be seen through the opaque glass of that narrow window, but you know exactly what's on the other side: a cramped, dirty…

One misstep and it could all be over.

They never got around to putting up the new wallpaper.

She taps her heels against the wall, keeping an inaudible beat.

The rusted catwalk creaks under every tread.

You stop and take the world in, a figure jittering on PAUSE. Nobody looks up. Nobody asks why you're here. Nobody waves.

The site of innumerable handjobs, as well as maybe some cushion-fucking.

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

A gesture to the idea of 'water safety'.

Detritus everywhere. Watch your step.

A table for all tasks. Shrunk to fit, still managing.

Scalpel. Clamps. Sutures. All meticulously accounted for.

Precarious stacks of 'HOLIDAY CARDS 97, PRE-ORDER'

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

Nitrogen, hastily discarded.

Supremely easy to swipe.

Stacked fast, abandoned halfway.

Heavy scuff marks from a roller chair.

A delivery of high grip tyres to more adventurous vehicles.

Ten feet away, overarm toss. You could get any trash in this can.

Rust halfway through devouring the support beams.

Whoever tried to clean up had to leave in a rush.

Entire chapters ripped out of the medical textbooks, replaced with handwritten pages.

Easy climb.

Cheap aluminium steps collapsed under their own weight.

Locked. You're not getting out this way.

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

News from the crash site: Recovery crews have pulled a scorched orange box from the wreckage.

Put on your seatbelt, Hershel. The future is here.