Personalism

You return to the shrine under the stairs.

"Back again, are we?"

"How goes it, H?"

The cat lounges.

The novel lies where you left it, gathering expensive dust -- 'Blood Type: Hecatomb' by H. S. Lastra.

"Long time, no speaky, nameless one."

The intercom gleams in the daylight, fully exposed.

There they all are, just as you left them.

One more phone, one more voice.

"Operant."

The vendor won't look at you. He recoils slightly as you step closer.

"Go on, Hersh. You'll give us away."

The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.

"Spare me the bleating you call an accent and listen up: metoprolol, you eunuch-diddling Azzurri. That's what I paid for -- not atenolol!"…

You return to the faded billboard.

"Back again."

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

Someone's personal stash.

This is what remains of the Portofiro's bright futurist mania.

The flyer promises 'Steamy Tsunians, Freshly Immigrated.'

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

A lot of cat hair. It must store its treasure here.

Space enough for strangers to eat together in comfortable silence.

A tiny, framed print of the Hill of Pigs' skyline -- an attempt at coziness.

Statues, huddled together. Makes you feel sorry for them.

The tram's logo is a wombat -- friendly and approachable.

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

Sometimes, at sunrise, Lucia comes up here for a cigarette.

A neat panel of buttons and dials. Watched over by dirtied litter.

Bin collection schedule plastered over with hand-lettered ads.

Excellent view over Party Alley from here. Can make sure everyone's having fun.

Two plants reach for each other. They've almost made it.

A very old rota for building maintenance tasks.

Bureaucrat of the month awards, gathering dust.

Easier to write off the loss than attempt to recover it.

Trembling in her seat. Her eyes won't meet yours.

A glare of light behind you obliterates your reflection's face.

A map of the carving identifies each hero.

Teenagers sulk in the bandstand, idle and irreverent.

A small vessel that once tried to fill the emptiness with songs.

Party lighting and laughter from inside.

Mailboxes: the best way to get to know someone without having to talk to them.

You had meant to demonstrate to Karolina how to infiltrate an apartment -- instead, one of you knocked over a flowerpot and you had to dart…

Shelves stacked by a hoarder, then labelled by an obsessive.

A stray cat hops soundlessly over a nearby wall. Your double turns to you.

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

There's a signed Ultra Violeta record on the turntable.

The menu lists fourteen varieties of schnapps.

Linens on the sofa. Someone's been working nights.

No fan is a match for the doctor's boiling temperament.