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Time, over-bright and sterile, like a journey through a dead world. Sometimes you wonder whether Room 405 is the time, and you are the place.

Sometimes you don’t know where you are or what you are.

In an alternative universe, you watch a woman check a leak under the sink. There is no fungal colony, just a small puddle of water in a bucket surrounded by the usual under-sink cleaning detritus.

She tries calling a plumber.

She has been trying to get a plumber in ever since the toilet started dribbling cistern water all over the floor, gurgling like a happy baby as it did so.

There is something wrong with the water here. Rivers burst their banks, leaving parked cars bobbing around like vehicular flotsam. Water-mains explode with exuberant frequency, shattering roads and seeping into basements, fusing the city’s nervous system.

Of course there is no plumber. The city has conscripted all the plumbers it can find, issuing them with cheerful red waterproof boiler suits. Bright with purpose, they seek out the watery infection wherever it is most advanced.

You wonder whether the city will drown in the end.

The woman begins to write. Because that’s the only thing you can do when you want to try and make sense of anything. She starts a story about someone who ends up in hospital with a horrid drug resistant staph infection and a weird mould spore combo.

All because of a leaking sink.

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