Sensors

It's chilly up here.

"NESTORISMO PARA TODOS, CHUCHA!"

Smell of damp cigarette butts: ash and mould.

'It is the tenant's responsibility to dispose of their own rubbish.'

A lattice of shadows, like the bars of a cage.

You emerge from the tunnel into darkness. It crowds around you for a better look.

You hear a steady dripping from inside the fridge.

The diagnosis line reads CLOSETED HOMOSEXUAL.

A reading pile in three languages. Mostly about psychic phenomena.

Between the leaves and graffiti, a small etching of a heart.

A sign warning that sale of contraband is punishable by law.

The letters S and K together in a spray-paint heart.

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

Abandoned noodles. They smell strongly of gin.

A small miracle to have just one tile missing.

'No open flames. INCLUDING LIT CIGARETTES.'

Children's clothes, left out to dry -- now wet, again.

Something reflective glints inside the barrel.

Door shut, windows dark. No-one is home.

Renovation materials.

'NO', in black marker, prefixes the word 'EXIT'.

Junkmail from a tuk-tuk repair company.

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…

Detached plugs, powerless.

The light is out. You'll need to bring your own.

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…

Muffled humming. The radio's on low.

The building's sleeping breath is visible in the cool air.

The face in the murky water -- gaunt, hollow, yours.

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

Upholstery slouches against the wall, decomposing.

A mouse trap with a bloody paw in its grip. No sign of the rodent.

The air is a sticky haze of fryer grease and sausage steam.

Upstairs, someone is walking around in heavy shoes.

Tightly-wound rolls of paper, begging to be unravelled.

Both the radio and TV are on, the latter is muted.

A half-finished cup of tea. No steam.

People are talking in low, comfortable tones inside.

Survive Your Acquaintance: a series on exotic animal care.

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.

Children's clothes, a boy and a girl, drying in the sun.

The chair looks soft and expensive.

You can see the ruins of Essilk from here.

Are we trying to fuck it?

Boats cut through a film of algae and petrol on the water's surface.

Everything freshly fried.

A faint draft whistles through the hatch. There's another room under this one.

Layers of graffiti, an artistic turf war.

Mold devours the actress's face.