Grey Matter

It took significant force to knock over this chair.

Cabinet doors have been ripped from their hinges.

Surgical lights -- modern ones.

Donations. It is unclear to what, though the nature of the shrine suggests war crimes.

The cold dregs of an espresso.

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

Too many pipes to keep track of, serpentine, cold.

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

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

Leaves and trash jumble the gutter -- a decaying bird's nest.

"... essay regarding the study of dolorimetry on her own body..."

Trash, washed up here from a thousand miles away.

An offering.

The tarp clings to the railing, stiff with long-dried oil stains.

It must be an extremely valuable ladder to elicit such measures.

A collection of sensible shoes.

Sandstone. This island was once an ancient seabed.

Nearly-identical sets of shirts and trousers, ironed and folded.

This tuk-tuk has been parked for some time.

Forgotten in the shadow of the satellite.

Somebody tried to unblock the toilet with a riding whip.

The turnstiles don't budge; the station's shut for 'improvements'.

Distance disappearing into darkness.

Scattered items beginning to gather dust.

Small white flowers have opened up at the touch of a sunbeam, tight buds unfurling. Pale, fragile things.

The words '66 Wolves' flash across the screen.

Already picked over for the good bits.

Where do they all go?

Broken pipes, an old pneumatic system.

A fancy callbox.

Increasingly negative newspaper articles pertaining to a 'Project AUTONOMÍA'.

Mind your ankles.

Straps with steel ratchets. No getting out of that.

Empty bottles are all that remain of the drinks bar.

Ads for one of Reno's many interests.

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

Waste oil or something worse. Don't touch.

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

Vents release steam from pipes below the street.

Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light provided by the recessed bulb above you.

Waste in humbler houseboats is ejected directly into the canal.

Fresh film, labelled 'evidence'.

Non-zero chance the fluids in that sink will one day form new life.

Odd place for a filing cabinet.

Someone risked their neck to arrange cat blankets carefully on this platform.

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…

You're not going to just wear that boring, brown paper bag, are you? It's an insult to the rich tradition of facial ornaments.

The violet night comes on like a stain. The full moon makes its stately procession as, one by one, the first of the fixed stars reveal…

One sticky note says, 'NO WAY'. The others take stabs at ways.

Metal on these water pipes is covered in scratches. Means it's likely lead.