TEXT: Petra had the only key to the door at the top of the building. When everyone clocked off, the step clicks petered out around half five. Voices were sparse, and the machines hummed quietly. She would ascend, and with a hot tea in her left hand, open the door with her right, and watch the heavy sun cast a glow over the industrial estate. Thirty minutes of peace, her time.
The jagged geometric lines crossed and layered and met. Each time one was drawn, another section of the screen fell away, another space filled, another colour flickering in the dark room. At an even pace, within a few minutes, the area would be a palette of violently bright pixels. The process was being recorded. It would be transposed onto a film of the latest models in production and shown at the next conference.
BBC Computers – National Museum of Computing
Patrick gingerly ventured into the empty building. The door hadn’t been too difficult to budge. His hands felt grubby from the layered cobwebs and dust. Up the stairs and to the left. No clocking in this time. His old desk still sat in the small dank office, the door was ajar, his name etched on a bronze plaque. Patrick Flint, Manager. He hadn’t worked since.
TEXT: The carpark hadn’t been used for a long time. Anyone that drove in, drove out. No one wanted to leave their valuable car in the vacuous space. There were a few cameras, but Giles knew where they were placed, and knew how to avoid them. He had lived there for 2 years now. The 4th floor was his rooftop terrace. If the weather was nice, he would make a hot cup of coffee on his camping stove, take it to the top of the building and survey the city. It was a concrete castle, and he was king.
“In London, where Southhampton Row passes Russell Square, Leo Szilard waited irritably one gray Depression morning for the stoplight to change. A trace of rain had fallen during the night; Tuesday, September 12, 1933, dawned cool, humid and dull. Drizzling rain would begin again in early afternoon. When Szilard told the story later he never mentioned his destination that morning. He may have had none; he often walked to think. In any case another destination intervened. The stoplight changed to green. Szilard stepped off the curb. As he crossed the street time cracked open before him and he saw a way to the future, death into the world and all our woe, the shape of things to come….”
Text and inspiration courtesy of – http://n4trb.com/London/imperial_hotel_london.htm
Different hotel, same place, wrong time.
I would stand in a different window each day, for ten minutes at 9:15, and watch the London streets. My posture was always the same. After three weeks and two days, I noticed a man notice me. He would stand, in exactly the same position on the street below. His posture was always the same. We were both just waiting, and for those ten minutes, the world came to a stand still. When I moved from my vista, I would glance back, and he would have his head down jotting in a notepad before striding off. I wondered if he was trying to guess which window I would appear in next, trying to assess the pattern. Maybe he would make a piece of music based on my ritual, or maybe he was mapping my movements for a painting. Maybe he was just window spotting. I wonder what will happen when I take annual leave.
Office block near St Pancras in London, windows on repeat.