Doppelgäng

Looks like some trash managed to escape its bag on the way out.

Even the chair gäng's been broken up.

Fire hydrant. To drown those candles if they get ideas.

Whoa, someone's paid it forward.

Feel the weight of those papers. It's all in there, the culmination to this madness.

A fax machine, on but quiet -- listening for messages from its gäng.

The glass is begging for a rock.

Doors crowd you, stacked upon each other. Behind one of them -- your former asset, ESTOC, draped in a see-through cloak.

A lonely break spot.

Scribbled under a warning sign: 'CHECK PRESSURES HOURLY.'

Dated: 76. We were teens. Life loomed. And now, we're here.

Real thick future shit.

A vital signs monitor displays the stats of a frail patient.

Don't recognise any of these bands. Been gone too long.

If everything goes to shit, you can always come hang with the untergäng.

You were panting from the run over, heart thudding in your ears. Hours late. There was an astral door beside that trash can and an exchange…

Tiny creatures peer from plastic capsules, their freedom left to chance.

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

Rainboots. They'd look good on us.

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.

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

'WARNING: FALL HAZARD.'

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

Are we trying to fuck it?

Wow... machine-gäng.

Radio's dead -- shame, this would be a great party spot.

The party started inside, continued out here.

Falling to pieces. We could kick him over and finish the job.

Rubbish, kicked but never collected.

Only one bathroom. The piss line must have been a warzone.

Scribble time: GÄNG 4EVER. SUK YA DAD.

'Rest in peace, S.L. Eternal love, the karaoke boys.'

Cool place to hang.

It doesn't have to be so hard. You wrestle with the guilt, the shame. But if you just said 'the world did this to me' -- some of that…

Some say the Philosophical Spy is simply the Manus Fati's finger puppet. Others call it a walking massive depressive episode. But one thing…

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

Everybody knows males are the top level. You're destined for mediocrity, the eternal supporting role -- just smile and accept it. Only…

When the drinks are poured out and shirts slowly unbuttoned, will it be your heels scuffing the parquet?