An identity crisis

Above the radiators remains a shadow of heat, a slowly smouldered white paint that turned to thin, smoky streaks. The carpet remembers… the carpet remembers those square-footed tables and chairs that crushed it flat for year after year, a memory from which the carpet is never likely to recover. Cables grow from out the walls, trailing like urban ivy across the floor, they finish… end… unfulfilled in a fibre optic loneliness, grasping at the centre of the room, desperate for the devices that left them long ago. 

From its hook upon the wall, somebody… and I don’t know who… has taken the emergency evacuation chair. In spite of this, we all know that should the rubbish bins catch fire… our assembly point is C. In a twenty-first century way… I sense that everything is going to be okay.

 On the floor lies a roll of paper, curled into a tube and coiled back upon itself. Uninvited, a breeze makes its way into the room, sets the roll of paper rocking on its arc, and with a scuffing sound, unravelled, a flash of colour comes… screen-printed prisms in pink and green and orange. The building blushes, there is the awkward squeak of a hinge… number 58 Victoria Embankment…

Audit House never expected this.

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