[img[SCM.jpg]]\nSome monstrous wildthings breached a filigree of police tape to spraypaint this donkey and initials. The area is foul with thick bootprints & [[stink of authority|RunningForHome]].

[img[SCM.jpg]]\nBootprints. The water flows thick like blood, like oil. Something watches me from the forest, I believe. I cannot see it. There is the thrum and racket as a train goes by and a wet sucking sound somewhere.\n[[Okay, neat|RunningForHome]].

You walk for a few minutes into the woods. Eventually you come to a bridge over the river that feeds the [[stagnant pond|MillPond]] at the heart of town. Everything smells like [[decay|River0]].\n[[Go Home|RunningForHome]]\n

[img[SCM.jpg]]\nSome monstrous wildthings breached a filigree of police tape to spraypaint this donkey and initials. The area is foul with thick bootprints & [[stink of authority|RunningForHome]].

[img[SCM.jpg]]\nThe donkey and initials hold an endless fascination. I crouch at the bank of the stream, which appears to have frozen. I throw a rock across the surface and it disappears. In the distance, there is [[gunplay|RunningForHome]].\n\n

The barkeep leers at me and slams down a glass of clear fluids. He then snaps a vial in half over the liquid. [[I drink until the feels run out and then I cry neon tears and vomit convulsively in a bathroom stall and fuck a stranger and punch an asshole and die a dozen times and jesus fuck I can't stand to be sober in this place|RunningForHome]].

Alien digits reach out from the darkness.\n[[Right trigger to defend|SeeCuke2]]

<<silently>>\n<<if $jambox lt 1>><<set $jambox = 1>><<endif>>\n<<if $jambox gt 10>><<set $jambox = 1>><<endif>>\n<<set $jambox = $jambox - 1>>\n<<goto "jambox">>\n<<endsilently>>

Even though this bar has been around for a zillion years, the toilets still have tanks and, importantly, lids that can be [[lifted off|Tank]].

Rock\n[[To smash the skulls of primitive animals|Obj2]]\n[[To hurl|Obj2]]\n[[To eat|No]]

Ankle-deep in cold foul water, you crouch and peel plastic from the package. Light brown hair and a dead grin that spreads for miles. You don't need to peel further to see the gangly limbs. You've known this man for so long that the loss doesn't register. You close your mouth now and you [[scream|RunningForHome]].\n

CORRECT.\nPond\n[[Wet|No]]\n[[Mosquito breeding|No]]\n[[Stink|No]]\n

CORRECT.\nBird\n[[To eat|Obj3]]\n[[Keep as pet|Obj3]]\n[[Insufflate for pleasure and intoxication|No]]\n

It is unreasonably dark. My feet cling to the floor. [[A sagging futon|SLEEP]] collapses in front of a [[TV]]. Broken [[radio|jambox]] spills its guts in the corner. Dusty [[game console|PLAY]] tethered to the TV. Discarded filth ration wrappers clutter the floor. In [[the distance|OUT]], where once there was the throb of the 401, there's a sound like a thousand centipedes feasting. <<if $radioplaying eq "yes">><<display "AptRdio">><<endif>>

Reek of neon black flames as they cook the calm air. A buried, rotting clock chimes out the protest hour. [[A reeking, stained futon|SLEEP]] writhes in front of a [[TV]]. Broken [[radio|jambox]] in the corner. Dusty [[game console|PLAY]] tethered to the TV. You tug at the analog collar you woke up wearing this morning. [[Outside|OUT]], you hear the vulse and seizures of the mob. <<if $radioplaying eq "yes">><<display "AptRdio">><<endif>>

The sunset dyes the room a bloody hue. [[A sagging futon|SLEEP]] collapses in front of a [[TV]]. Half-smashed [[radio|jambox]] sits (mostly) in the corner. An aging [[game console|PLAY]] sits near the TV. The room presses in around you. In [[the distance|OUT]], you hear sirens. Lights strobe in the distance. Somewhere, someone laughs; hysterical, unreasoning. <<if $radioplaying eq "yes">><<display "AptRdio">><<endif>>

Rotted single-room apartment slashed to orange ribbons by dying light. Hardwood floor slick-sticky with discarded flesh flakes and hair where it's not obscured by books, undergarments, pizza boxes. [[A sagging futon|SLEEP]] collapses in front of a [[TV]]. Broken [[radio|jambox]] in the corner. Dusty [[game console|PLAY]] tethered to the TV. Your eyes blink slow and burn. In [[the distance|OUT]], you hear the throb of the 401, of the world humming politely past. <<if $radioplaying eq "yes">><<display "AptRdio">><<endif>>

Citizenihilists stomp the bodygrounds in the distance. The sky tilts nauseating and obscene. [[A sagging futon|SLEEP]] collapses in front of a [[TV]]. Eviscerated [[jambox]] covers most of the floor. Fucked-to-death [[game console|PLAY]] is bound to the TV by greasy wires. I curl at the waist and vomit on my feet. [[Outside|OUT]] there is the sound of teeth on concrete, of bones slowly powdering under years of pressure. <<if $radioplaying eq "yes">><<display "AptRdio">><<endif>>

<<if $day eq 0>>[[Monday|Apartment]]<<endif>><<if $day eq 1>>[[Tuesday|Apartment]]<<endif>><<if $day eq 2>>[[Friday|Apartment]]<<endif>><<if $day eq 3>>[[Thursday|Apartment]]<<endif>><<if $day eq 4>>[[Wednesday|Apartment]]<<endif>>

Vulse

You

<<if $day eq 0>><<display "Bar0">><<endif>><<if $day eq 1>><<display "Bar1">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "Bar2">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "Bar3">><<endif>>\n<<if $day eq 4>><<display "Bar4">><<endif>>

I am walking towards a pond. Someone is following me, through the trees. I lose him, easily. I see a body in the water, [[floating|End4]].

<<set $day = $day + 1>><<if $day eq 0>><<display "D0GoHome">><<endif>><<if $day eq 1>><<display "D1GoHome">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "D2GoHome">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "D3GoHome">><<endif>><<if $day eq 4>><<display "D4GoHome">><<endif>>\n\n

I vomit my digital insides. My whole life is a cycle of regrowing my guts and vomiting when threatened. I leave my toxic entrails behind and drift madly away. The hand still grabs you. I am [[finished|RunningForHome]].

Your dad would take you on errands and stop here for a beer or two. You sat on a high stool, eating cheap pizza, while Dad talked to the [[daydrinkers|Bar0]].

You slow down as the headlights drift past. The framerate drops slightly as shadows caress the interior of the car. The street is [[dark|Car3]].

The coast is clear, so you tug on the thumbsticks to turn off the road [[behind|Car4]] a sign-making and graphic design shop.

You press X and your slender, hairless fingers slide to the passenger's thigh. There are [[lights|Car2]] in the distance.\n[[Pull in behind one of the buildings|RuhRoh]]

I rub shoulders with heathens, with pulse mavens. My hair blazes beneath the pub lights. Neon black flames smoulder in a corner. Alcohol is purchased to imbibe and fashion molotov cocktails in equal measure.\n[[Order a drink|ApocDrink]]\n[[Go home|RunningForHome]]

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Constant blue glare from the sky that doesn't seem to be a sky anymore but rather a low-res jpeg of his face stretched wide and leering down at you. Too low to be considered a proper sky, anyway. It presses down against you, demanding that you [[succumb|Dream]].\n[[Resist.|Apartment]]\n

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. \n[img[DBeat.jpg]]\n

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. \n[img[Rhizome.jpg]]\n\n

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. Off-key singing and off-time beats for the off-kilter.

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. Ephraim P. Noble pontificates on the finer points of "punking the fuck out." Whatever that means. When it finishes, there's a ch-chunk as the tape deck rolls on to Side B.

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. Crust punk heroes spew fucked-to-death tunes.

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. Sickly strings. Aharmonic ululations that go on for maybe too long before the song detonates into a punk-rock seizure. EVERYBODY NEEDS A LITTLE DEVASTATION. Behind this comes a beautiful piano line that dovetails into a gorgeous coda. Just as the song becomes catchy, it's over. Fuck you. Go home.

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. What kind of horrid motherfucker actually puts Brand New's "Mixtape" at the start of a mixtape?

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. Thrashing guitar riffs over greasy, effects-laden basslines. High-pitched shrieking. "THOSE YOUNG FISTS CLENCHED IN THE AIR MAKE A MILLION MILLIONAIRES."

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. Minor piano chords keeping time behind a funeral dirge. Gang shouts. Downtuned guitars cough their distortion in 4/4.

"Did you hear?"\n"A body--"\n"I went to high school with him."\n"Always weird."\n"I heard he went to Calgary?"\n"Loved his drugs."\n"Came home and moved in with his mom."\n"I heard he was stabbed."\n"I heard his face is missing."\n"I heard he overdosed."\n[[Order a drink|D1Waltz]]\n[[Go home|RunningForHome]]\n

It used to be called the [[Waltzing Weasel|DadMem]]. Now it's haunted by ghosts of graduating classes. [[Perpetual wheelspinners|wheelspinners]] that don't so much live as subsist off entitlement and a crass celebration of their own boiling hate. Christ, you fucking [[hate it here|D0Waltz]].

The door is sealed with police tape. The lights are out. Looks like something nasty went down in here last night. There's a trail of bloodstains leading up Commercial Street.\n[[Back|Out3]]

Once inside the door, you recognize a guy from high school. He's older, bald now. Teeth ground down to fierce nubs. Josh, let's call him. He's pissy, pissed. In your face. "Hey. I 'member you." He follows you to the [[bathroom]].\n

The bar is partially on fire. Cracked grins of its patrons welcome and threaten in [[equal measure|ApocBar0]].\n

It's an impossible photo, as they all are. And yet, you cannot help but hear the whine of the nearby stream, as though it were a sample run through a broken amp. Behind the photographer, a full 180 degrees away from this shot is surely the [[Mill Pond|Pond]].

Rickety splintered beaverboard speaker housing. A collection of dead pens, worn at the tip from spooling tape back into its proper place. No music. No distortion. No guitars. Sussurous of static and aging analog. "... What got me by during that period was conceiving of the history of philosophy as a kind of ass-fuck, or, what amounts to the same thing, an immaculate conception. I imagined myself approaching an author from behind and giving him a child that would indeed be his but would nonetheless be monstrous." A throaty ch-chunk as the tapedeck rolls back to the start of Side A.

//The thing is that my consciousness drifts and I have forgotten exactly what I look like. I pass my reflection in a blackened window and I may not recognize myself. My relfection is now perceived as a threat, an ugly twin. My reflection is a dark nonperson, a stranger on the street and this is not an identity crisis as I understand the phrase.// - Will Christopher Baer, "Penny Dreadful"

An [[object|Obj0]], wrapped in layers of split clear plastic drifts placidly down the river to rest underneath the bridge.\n

In this one, he is caught mid-step, a gangly parody, theatrical casual. It's dark, but the streetlights glint off the stubby green bottles you'd both been drinking from. You're next to him but it's hard to tell. The way the [[camera|P2oof]] caught you both that summer, it was always hard to tell. He was permanent foreground. You were an elbow, a strange interloping gesture from [[behind him|P2b]].

Most have kids; some have careers; a few have mortgages. The old graves digging the [[new|D0Waltz]].

She stands next to you on the corner of Main & Commercial. Behind you is the fried chicken place you worked at, your first job. Her hair is in tight small braids, wet with spring rain. She wears a formless blue jacket that's one size too big, sleeves balled up around her white, wet knuckles. She is turned slightly away, [[mouth smiling, fists clenched|P2]]. It is this pose which somehow allows access to the occulted expression beneath the sweetness of her lovely face. Your face is turned to survey her profile, her gaze is angled off to the side, staring down a horizon she'll never breach. Out of frame but still irrevocably there, fixed in your mind with the same insistence of this polaroid is the entrace to [[The Waltzing Weasel|Bar]].

You flop on the futon to find that it's stuffed with worms. They roil and wail beneath your weight. Their earthy, occulted scent lulls you to [[sleep|Dream]].\n[[Not yet|Apartment]].

The air is cool and close, like water. It smells like silt. It smells like spring and birth and things that only live for a day. Things that live for blood. [[Close your eyes|Dream]].\n[[I cannot|Apartment]].\n

You stretch out on the lumpen futon. The books and game cases barely register as the weight transfers from your neck and shoulders to just behind your eyes. They start to [[droop|Dream]].\n[[No|Apartment]].

You flop on the futon and pretend you don't hear the sirens. Pretend you don't see the lights strobing through your window. Your eyes [[close|Dream]]. \nHaul yourself back from the [[brink|Apartment]].\n

A recurring nightmare: You are forging a chain, link by link. The room is dark. You make your way by feeling, by heat, by pupils dialed so far that the blackness swallows your eyes. Light eventually creeps in. Your chain will be evaluated. If it is good, you can leave. The chain you've forged is not linear, but a webwork of [[interwoven and broken|DayFlash]] links that vibrate in your hands. The room grows dark again.

.revision-span-in {\n opacity: 0;\n}\n.revision-span:not(.revision-span-out) {\n transition: 1s; -webkit-transition: 1s;\n}\n.revision-span-out {\n position:absolute;\n opacity: 0;\n}\n

It's possible that this is the end. But I'm still here. The throb of the 401 is gone. We are no longer held by maps. We cannot be arrested by purpose, nor grasped by hands that will put us to //work//. I'm just waiting for [[my body|End1]] to turn up. We all are.

<<if $day eq 0>><<display "Pond0">><<endif>><<if $day eq 1>><<display "Pond1">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "Pond2">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "Pond3">><<endif>><<if $day eq 4>><<display "Pond4">><<endif>>

Oh. [[Oh my|Car4]].

<<if $day eq 0>><<display "Apt0">><<endif>><<if $day eq 1>><<display "Apt1">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "Apt2">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "Apt3">><<endif>>\n<<if $day eq 4>><<display "Apt4">><<endif>>\n

You are wrong.\n[[Game over|RunningForHome]]\n

Wasted, belligerent. Spewing bile because that's all you have left, now. At least, until they show you the [[door|RunningForHome]].

<<silently>>\n<<set $jambox = 1>>\n<<set $day = 0>>\n<<set $radioplaying = "yes">>\n<<endsilently>>\n[img[jamessnowparkway.jpg]]\nIf you can cope in this\n<<timedinsert 0.75s>>hopeless<<gains>>\nhepatitis pissrag<<gains>>\nmolotov cocktail<<gains>>\nmonobrow shithole,<<gains>> baby<<gains>>\nthen you can cope<<gains>>\n[[anywhere at all.|DayFlash]]\n-mclusky<<endtimedinsert>>\n

You clutch the bottle in a gnarled fist and batter open the stall door. Josh, belligerent, lunges for you and you catch him under the chin with the bottle, which shatters.\n\nYou press you way out of the washroom and [[run home|RunningForHome]].

In the stall, there's a [[toilet]]. The door slams open again and Josh strolls in, slurring invectives.

<<if $day eq 0>><<display "Out0">><<endif>><<if $day eq 1>><<display "Out1">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "Out2">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "Out3">><<endif>><<if $day eq 4>><<display "Out4">><<endif>>

Cracked sidewalk beneath the backlit Quality Greens sign. At street level, you don't apprehend your surroundings as sequential experiences. You don't perceive the twin weeping silhouettes melting into one another on the corner. You don't see the distended sunset smeared across the horizon in all the wrong ways. Instead, your surroundings might as well be a series of [[fucked-with polaroids|P1]].

Frost makes the town look like attic junk caked in cobwebs. [[Martin street|Pond]] still strobes a cool blue ahead of you. There is a bustle of movement as paramedics and police swarm the scene. To your right, [[the bar|Bar]] throbs warm like a hand between your thighs.

Neon black sky hangs overhead like a rough hand descending across your eyes. Smoke rises in the distance. Faces of the townsfolk are digital mosaics, all pixel and distortion. The streetlights hum. The sound of [[thrashing water|Pond]] down Martin. A high keening howl comes from the [[bar|Bar]].

It's black out. Religiously black. Ripple of light glancing off [[wet eyes|Pond]]. And to my right, a [[grinding, a gnashing|Bar]].

I am outside and weeping. I know you are a part of me because I move and you shiver. I know you are not here because I have touched [[your coffin|Pond]]. I know you are swimming in my memory, but you will never haunt me in the way that we understood it when we made that [[drunken|Bar]] pact.

Close up of a flea, grown fat and drunk on blood. A mosquito vibrates. A sea cucumber vomits its internal organs and [[drifts away|Apartment]].

Cogeco 14 weathercam trained on the A&P parking lot. Shadows like skinny fingers reach toward the building. Someone's standing directly in front of the camera. Painted horsehead staring. They're holding an unreadable cardboard sign. Words illegible or obscured by glare, [[you can't really tell|Apartment]].\n

A body, wrapped in clear plastic. Floating [[endlessly|Apartment]].

A rippling farmer's field. Insects choke the air, oblivious to the wind. Silence. The Niagara Escarpment [[curled like a fist|Apartment]], like a dead slug, like a black turd on the horizon.

[[Static. Dead air.|Apartment]] White noise that might be screams, might be a train. The world in the screen reveals itself occasionally to be a tape loop repeating; friction has worked its dark magic on the horizon, smearing sunset like fistfuls of fingerpaint.

<<silently>>\n<<set $jambox = $jambox + 1>>\n<<if $jambox lt 0>><<set $jambox = 1>><<endif>>\n<<if $jambox gt 10>><<set $jambox = 1>><<endif>>\n<<goto "jambox">>\n<<endsilently>>

But I hear sounds of birds. Don't you hear them? \n[[Yes|End2]]\n[[No|End2]]\n

The town took root out of a settlement by Jasper Martin along the Sixteen Mile Creek; Martin immigrated from Newcastle, England with his wife Sarah and two sons on May 17, 1818. Martin was granted 100 acres (40 ha) of land, from the Crown in 1820, designated Lot 14, Concession 2, Township of Trafalgar, Halton County, in the District of Gore. Martin later built a grist mill along the creek and created a pond, known as Mill Pond, to power his mill. The mill became the centre of settlement for others as they settled in the region. In 1837 the area had a population of approximately 100 people and was named Mill Town. The town, as it is today, soon after became known as Milton. The two principal property owners of the young town were the Martins and the Fosters.

I hear them as they must have sounded then, when I was young, although I never heard them then, although they sounded about us [[then|End3]].\n

No. You are in no man's land. Which never moves, which never changes, which never grows older, but which remains forever, icy and silent.\n\n[[I'll drink to that|End6]].

I am excited. I look closer and see I was mistaken. There is nothing in the water. I say to myself, I saw a body, drowning, but I am mistaken. There is [[nothing|End5]] there.

[img[Stagnantpool.jpg]]

The ground already roves beneath the tires. Your hand curls with theirs like a nest of pit vipers on the shifter. The headlights are off as the [[industrial|Car1]] part of town slides past.\n

Rudimentary pixel art. You are shown an object and must choose its most [[applicable use|Obj1]].\n

Try as you might, the console refuses to start. Its light blinks coldly. It is almost as though the console has been replaced by a [[replica|Apartment]], a hollow box with a thin veneer of video game console-ness.

The console continues to resist my tinkering. An otherworldly [[black halo|Halo]] appears to surround it.

A sea cucumber, made strange by pressure and darkness; its leathery body containes a single, branched gonad. It gushes pheromones as I fondle the gamepad.\n\n[[Thumbsticks|SeeCuke]].

Digital flesh on digital flesh. Compressed, poorly acted voice samples. [[Press X to suck neck|SuckNeck]]. Your hair hangs low around your faces. Before it gets good, the camera pulls back to an outside view of the car.\n\n[[Game Over|RunningForHome]]. You win.

<<if $radioplaying eq "yes">><<set $radioplaying = "no">><<else>><<set $radioplaying = "yes">><<endif>>\n<<goto "jambox">>

<<timedreplace 10s>>The radio cheerily hisses static and invectives.<<becomes>>The dope jambox blares discordant bliss.<<becomes>>The sick stereo sounds like tongue-kissing a lamprey eel.<<becomes>>The speakers boom a big beat that's swimming in your memory.<<becomes>>That tapedeck is full of screams and fretboard calisthenics.<<becomes>>The radio is playing a )o- song.<<becomes>>Cool boombox looms large enough to fill the heart-shaped hole where the hope runs out.<<becomes>>The sound system supreme wonders idly when you're going to click on something, motherfucker.<<endtimedreplace>>\n

<<if $radioplaying eq "yes">><<if $jambox lte 1>><<display "Song1">><<endif>><<if $jambox eq 2>><<display "Song2">><<endif>><<if $jambox eq 3>><<display "Song3">><<endif>><<if $jambox eq 4>><<display "Song4">><<endif>><<if $jambox eq 5>><<display "Song5">><<endif>><<if $jambox eq 6>><<display "Song6">><<endif>><<if $jambox eq 7>><<display "Song7">><<endif>><<if $jambox eq 8>><<display "Song8">><<endif>><<if $jambox eq 9>><<display "Song9">><<endif>><<if $jambox gte 10>><<display "Song10">><<endif>><<else>>The jambox is silent.<<endif>>\n\n[[Mash the power button|JamboxPower]]\n[[Fast forward|FastForward]]\n<<if $jambox gte 2>>[[Rewind|Rewind]]<<endif>>\n[[Back|Apartment]]\n\n\n

As you pull in behind one of the buildings, the other car on the street follows you. The police catch the both of you in the back seat, a welter of tangled limbs and discarded clothing. After they make the two of you stand, shivering in the parking lot, making lewd comments, they write you both tickets and send you on your way.\n\n[[Game Over|RunningForHome]].

Out of frame: the police car just down the road that slowed, turned around, flashed lights told us to go pick up our beer. He took the ticket the cops gave you and muttered "[[happy birthday|P2]]."

I am bent all the way broken\nI am uncomfortably open\nI am turned into an angel\nI am no longer available

<<if $day eq 0>><<display "TV0">><<endif>> <<if $day eq 1>><<display "TV1">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "TV2">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "TV3">><<endif>>\n<<if $day eq 4>><<display "TV4">><<endif>>

HIRST:\nBut I hear sounds of birds. Don't you hear them? Sounds I never heard before. I hear them as they must have sounded then, when I was young, although I never heard them then, although they sounded about us then.\n//Pause.//\nYes. It is true. I am walking towards a lake. Someone is following me, through the trees. I lose him, easily. I see a body in the water, floating. I am excited. I look closer and see I was mistaken. There is nothing in the water. I say to myself, I saw a body, drowning, but I am mistaken. There is nothing there.\n//Silence.//\nSPOONER:\nNo. You are in no man's land. Which never moves, which never changes, which never grows older, but which remains forever, icy and silent.\n//Silence.//\nHIRST:\nI'll drink to that.\n//He drinks.//

I try to touch it, to press my fingers against the halo but no sense registers. It burns my eyes to stare at it too long, like it's not actually visible so much as a symptom of that [[brain cloud|Apartment]] I long suspected I deserve.

<<if $day eq 0>><<display "PlayDay0">><<endif>><<if $day eq 1>><<display "PlayDay1">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "PlayDay2">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "PlayDay3">><<endif>><<if $day eq 4>><<display "PlayDay4">><<endif>>

You're surprised to see a cold bottle of [[Boris]] floating in toilet water.

Bathroom stall, leaned against the wall. Shit-smeared toilets and everything's wet. Regular-ass toilets, still. Ones with actual tanks you can lift the lid off. A high, soft voice vomits or fucks in the next stall over.\n[[Shit]]\n[[Get off the pot|RunningForHome]]

You know these people, some of them. Maybe most of them. You have the same conversations you had with them in high school. \nFuck shots, [[storm this whole bottle|D1Waste]].

[[Robot Parking|http://www.twitter.com/robotparking]]

A thing happens, and then another. One after the other. Except these things are often inscrutible. Hide and seek. Things rarely go according to plan, even when the plans are ex post facto.\nWe are trash afloat on flat black water; we eddy but [[go nowhere|DayFlash]].

<<if $day eq 0>><<display "Dream0">><<endif>><<if $day eq 1>><<display "Dream1">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "Dream2">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "Dream3">><<endif>>\n<<if $day eq 4>><<display "Dream4">><<endif>>\n

<<if $day eq 0>><<display "SleepDay0">><<endif>><<if $day eq 1>><<display "SleepDay1">><<endif>><<if $day eq 2>><<display "SleepDay2">><<endif>><<if $day eq 3>><<display "SleepDay3">><<endif>><<if $day eq 4>><<display "SleepDay4">><<endif>>

You strain and grit your teeth until a thin rope of greasy waste shivers into the water. You flush and [[go home|RunningForHome]].

Before everything was measured and made accountable, chunks of ice dragged their way north like knuckles through savannah sand. Eventually, the furrows were wet and slowly warming. They carry the trash of the past downstream, [[where the future is built|DayFlash]].

I am not what I seem. I don't know when you end and I begin. Truth be told, I doubt you do, either. Know, I mean. You don't know a goddamn thing. There isn't really an us anymore, or a you. It's just flat grey streets, quiet and shivering in the [[cold dawn|DayFlash]].

Wet black wings close around me. Rotstink floats from the curdled soil in puffs. Ahead, there is fog, like the smoke in my lungs expanded infinitely and glutted itself upon the concrete. Sound of a field being ripped up by the wind. I see your face but I don't. It's been so long I can't conjure it, can't summon you.\n\nYou no longer haunt me, but you do. You've just gone [[silent, distant, cold|RunningForHome]].

The town took root out of a settlement by Jasper Martin along the Sixteen Mile Creek; Martin immigrated from Newcastle, England with his wife Sarah and two sons on May 17, 1818. Martin was granted 100 acres (40 ha) of land, from the Crown in 1820, designated Lot 14, Concession 2, Township of Trafalgar, Halton County, in the District of [[Gore|Pond0]]. Martin later built a grist mill along the creek and created a pond, known as Mill Pond, to power his mill. The mill became the centre of settlement for others as they settled in the region. In 1837 the area had a population of approximately 100 people and was named Mill Town. The town, as it is today, soon after became known as Milton.

You are lost.\nYou are lost and when I sleep you are always there like a flat black pond that gurgles and breeds [[bloodsuckers|RunningForHome]].

You are static.\nYou are white noise, unchanging.\nYou are the totality of choices made before I came.\nYou are whitewashed and safe in your [[terror|RunningForHome]].\n

Pulse mavens draw close.\nInvade and feed. Suck dry and discard [[hollow husks|RunningForHome]].

Our neon grins chew through this [[machine|RunningForHome]].\n