Blueprints

A barrier to keep rats out of the tent.

'PARTY ALLEY, Zona Tres'.

Under the sagging cardboard, bright foil catches your eye.

Must be the groundskeeper's shed.

Remnants of sky-blue paint on the metal dome.

The smell of a box opened after decades, the air of another age trapped inside.

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

Metal lungs, straining to exhale as they once did.

Gloom beckons you beyond the rubble.

You're nearing the top.

Lots of imported spices.

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…

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…

Edges of bootprints are stamped into the sheets.

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

A jazz record with only a series of shapes where the album title should be.

The wind combs through yellowed grass. Around you, old foundations and half-built walls lean crooked against the sky.

A label. This is apartment #3.

A weather-worn building looms over you, its back to the road. Yellow-beige plaster peels like parchment, exposing old brickwork.

The control panel glows steadily, its purpose fulfilled.

Tagged in marker pen; fast-fading.

Packages of sticky notes in a sickening variety of colours and sizes.

Strict speed limits imposed on canal traffic.

The 'OPEN/CLOSED' sign is subject entirely to Constanz' whims.

Non-perishable food and toiletries, packed as if for donation.

The city's industrial skeleton crooks a finger at you -- come hither.

Fragments of an unrealised geometry. They call to you.

Beyond fogged glass, the bustle of the city.

Looks like a good spot for an undisturbed public breakdown.

Thick cables -- an addition. Their outer sheath screams 'high voltage'.

He spends his days sitting with his back to his memories.

Secondhand chairs. Probably picked up from the alley downstairs.

The city stretches out beneath you, alive.

There's a first aid box on the high shelf.

The crumpled paper should crinkle in your hand, but it doesn't, stained with something rancid and dank.

Good vantage over here.

High-end medical equipment gathering dust.

Old tires scuffed with paint, bumped by docking boats.

You step over the threshold and into a memory. This place -- this bar -- the centre of the frozen world.

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.