P:”We’re moving to their Hideout?”
R:”That’s how you call it?”
P:”It is what we’re doing.”
R:”…”
P:”How do we-“
R:”I can’t answer right now.
Wait until we’re in a close space.”
He stopped telling me that my questions are useless.
It would be easier for him to operate with someone who knows what his doing.
Sunny.
It’s sunny in the inner city.
Typical Scenes.
Shabby lane-ways.
Piles of garbage at the bottom of shabby trees.
Ready to be collected.
Empty open spaces.
All too Conspicuous.
A global undercurrent of shadow.
Shades flowing on the grey streets.
It’s quiet.
Dreadfully quiet.
The music has been buried under the urban mass.
We move through this place.
Becoming more frustrated.
More aggressive.
Just because we’re unsafe here.
More people are itching themselves.
P:”…”
R:”…”
About the dust…
What can I say?
What useful information can I bring?
It makes people itchy.
We stop Outside a building.
He stays in front of it without moving.
Does he know the place?
That should be our destination.
He seems to have been there.
We approach the Sober facade.
He gets by the door.
He cracks the lock.
P:”That’s not a key.”
R:”No.”
We get in.
It’s even quieter than on the street.
The rooms are empty.
And full of decorations.
Pictures of stars on the walls.
Engraved tables.
Sculpted candles.
P:”They went away already?”
R:”…”
P:”Are we looking for something?”
R:”Follow me.”
We get to a larger room.
Rounder too.
P:”…”
R:”This is a séance room.”
P:”Seance?”
R:”It is where they gathered.”
P:”It looks like every other.”
R:”The table is different.
…
?”
He finds a recipe on the table.
It was left, here.
A Formula?