Blueprints

"Back again."

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

A palatial cat run.

Canal water licks the sides; boatless, faintly sulfurous.

A window for poets and photographers.

Through the cracked drawer, you can see the cabinet is mostly empty.

A broken birdcage -- as if crushed or thrown from the window above.

Waves lap at the rocky shore.

A street shrine with no street.

A stall recessed into brickwork; wear and scuffs suggest it's been here for years.

Someone draped the curtain here as a warning -- the escalator's collapsed.

The ground is enshrouded by fog.

Think, operant. If you were you, what would you get up to?

This place is not as you left it. The world moved on behind your back.

Soap bottles in the rubbish pile. Someone is living here.

Intimidating structures, humbled in their prime.

'PRECAUCIÓN: West exit pedestrians only.'

A broken connection.

Small animals skitter through the pipes overhead.

Cold light filters through windows semi-opaque with dust.

On display: a city's tastes in literature and cheap entertainment.

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

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

A shit wagon.

'Toll bridge ahead.'

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

The parking lot's seat of power.

A bottle, left intentionally. A past visitor, nodding at a future one.

A shadow of the mess inside stains the window.

Scuff marks run across the grain.

Musty damp envelopes, salvaged from the flooded basement.

Most demolition here was intentional, but this was time's wrecking ball.

The symbol of Portofiro's pride.

There is always a a darkness to doctor's offices, a certain worldly detachment.

Someone last used this calendar three months ago.

Half-smoked roaches line the creases of the beanbag: an emergency cache.

High-contrast paint, indicating sub-level FOUR.

There are so many places to disappear here.

Shrapnel everywhere.

The most popular seats in town.

Cinema seats, plucked at the root.

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

Unsubmerged, the door has the forbidden air of something dredged up from abyssal depths.

The broken door's still trying to block your path.

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

The locker is cracked open enough to see inside.

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

Portofiro stretches up the mountain, a shining mess.

Some kind of rule or interdiction, now effaced with black spray paint.

Rust-soldered and gathering mould, these controls no longer seem to do anything.