He's not mad -- that smelly mess of paper in your hand is making him worry about the well being of his own paperwork, that's all.
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Readables
Ledger of Oblivion
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If you knew it was dunked in the toilet before getting chucked into the trash, why're you sniffing it?
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Torturing your own nose -- for no reason! -- is not conducive to case-cracking, bud.
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- Garbage-toilet stink is not your fetish and you know it. Your nose does not fucking like this.
- Torturing your own nose -- for no reason! -- is not conducive to case-cracking, bud.
- ... so you wanted to get in on the trash-toilet stink collab? Find out what happens when those two get funky together? Okay, pal.
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Yeah, turns out your nose doesn't like self-indulgent literal-shit huffing. Quelle fuckin' surprise. Come on, no more -- the ledger is going back down, away from your nose now.
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... so you wanted to get in on the trash-toilet stink collab? Find out what happens when those two get funky together? Okay, pal.
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Garbage-toilet stink is not your fetish and you know it. Your nose does not fucking like this.
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Remember when I said the smell of the upstairs bathroom was so rank they should have sent a poet to describe it?
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Is "sprinkled liberally with the citrus zest of toilet cleaner" a line this poet might have used?
Why yes it is! Among many other things. This cleaning tablet is used by the Whirling-in-Rags -- perhaps that's where the ledger was dropped in the toilet? By you.
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Maybe you should pay more attention then? Anyway, what your nose is trying tell you is -- the ledger was dropped into a toilet in the Whirling-in-Rags, by you. The toilet cleaner in your room smells exactly the same.
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Which? You're not sure you've smelled this one yet, or worse... you have the nagging feeling you might have missed it.
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Hmm. The two sides of the board appear slightly misaligned. Like a drawer that's come off the slides. If you bend the plastic on your knee, slowly...
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Just relax. The two sides of the board are slightly misaligned. Like a drawer that's come off the slides. All you need to do is bend the plastic on your knee, slowly...
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Without resistance -- or sound -- the two panels move against each other. The compartment is now open.
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Without resistance -- or sound -- the two panels move against each other. The compartment is now open. Inside you see two ticket stubs.
Without resistance -- or sound -- the two panels move against each other. The compartment is now open. Inside you see two ticket stubs and a handmade post card.
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Two octopuses are smiling, reaching their tentacles toward each other in the coloured pencil drawings. The tickets permit access to a zoo in Revachol East. The aquarium costs extra -- these let you go there too.
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Two octopuses are smiling, reaching their tentacles toward each other in the coloured pencil drawings. The tickets permit access to a zoo in Revachol East. The aquarium costs extra -- they let you go there too. You should go and kill yourself there.
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- You stare at the card, willing your hand to move. It refuses. It's too much. Not again.
- Two octopuses are smiling, reaching their tentacles toward each other in the coloured pencil drawings. The tickets permit access to a zoo in Revachol East. The aquarium costs extra -- these let you go there too.
- It's me. I'm keeping his hand from moving. We're not doing that anymore. We're not reading those words. People have died. He needs to work, not ache his heart for something that will never return.
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You see two ticket stubs.
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Pick up the card again -- now that you're outside.
Pick up the card again.
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You stare at the card, willing your hand to move. It refuses. It's too much. Not again.
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No, you don't -- not without official police backup. It's simply impossible to open it. Your hands refuse to move.
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Somewhere in a station lazareth lieutenant-detective Kitsuragi turns on the side and says: ouch. The wounds are agonizing.
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Hmm... it's as if there is an automatic self-defence structure in your hand, keeping you from mind-fucking yourself with letters from past lovers.
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It's me. I'm keeping his hand from moving. We're not doing that anymore. We're not reading those words. People have died. He needs to work, not ache his heart for something that will never return.
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The lieutenant clears his throat. "I don't think this is the time to be going through personal affects," he says. "Let's move on."
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Thin wax paper has been glued to a piece of cardboard. Sounds like leaves rustling when you pick it up -- you see violet flowers, floral patterns, patches of glue.
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- Exactly like the gum wrapper you found. The same brand of chewing gum...
- A touch of cinnamon, the end of summer. You think the label says: 'Tutti Frutti'.
- Thin wax paper has been glued to a piece of cardboard. Sounds like leaves rustling when you pick it up -- you see violet flowers, floral patterns, patches of glue.
Familiar handwriting lines the inside of the card -- looped, round letters in a woman's hand.
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A young woman in her twenties. There is care, effort, and a smile, you think -- although that is not something you can read from someone's handwriting.
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"Harry," it begins -- you're already reading. "I wanted to write you a letter, so you can read it when you wake up. Maybe it will make you happy."
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A merciful wind blows in from the Bay of Revachol, dusting the ground at your feet and raising newspapers far away. You feel the card slipping into it...
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No! A merciful wind blows in from the Bay of Revachol, dusting the ground at your feet and raising newspapers far away. You feel the card slipping into it... now that you're out! Let go...
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No! Don't throw away the baggie! There's dust on the drug baggie! It's not good but at least it's some kind of way to be together...
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Just like that the wind picks it from your fingers. Cold, they let go, the wax paper rustles, a whisper light and low... Then a sudden gust raises the postcard to the drizzle grey sky above. Away from you...
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A small piece of paper dances above Martinaise -- above slow waves crashing the shore; and the war torn houses and the new batiments nouveau alike; above you, looking up to the grey sky with your hair greasy and wet..
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And above the distant streets and the 8/81 -- even above the old fish market and the church. Its material existence is lost. This great city will pocket it for you. For your own sake -- forget about it.
