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The ghost of new music.

A delicate ship constructed out of the flotsam of spy dramas and revenge fantasies sails headlong toward this rock, where it will shatter into a thousand lacerating crystals.

His dedication to metaphor is respectable, obfuscatory, serene -- a probable disciple of Dositeo Fernandez.

According to Dositeo Fernandez, the market has no edges, it is an amorphous, asexual blob.

A flash of inspiration? He seems to be drowning in it.

Burning the image into the gelatin silver of her amygdala.

Failed artist types always have a few pale downward shots of their own genitals stashed somewhere. She's seen it.

Four hearts, four points of light, waiting for you to draw the constellation between them.

You are a cosmic mystery. Get up there, into the void. You could be the first to expose it as a fraud.

Millions-billions dead. And more.

Squinting, you overlay the image of the phantom you saw at the Palace of Culture on top of this lanky young fuck.

Squinting, you overlay the image of Nestor from his t-shirt on top of this lanky young fuck.

Squinting, you overlay the image of Nestor you've seen in a hundred faded murals on top of this lanky young fuck.

Bad is good, good is bad, and everything is shit. Got it.

If wretched and rancid are good... is 'grandma' an insult or a compliment...?

'Did it mean nothing?'

You see it: the bullet's perfect trajectory, and blood arcing in sunlight. One shot rippling across time. History wobbles like a drunk on a quay.

Uttered with great solemnity one instant then spat out like curses the next. They seemed to take on their own solidity, detached from any human situation.

Great art deserves exhibiting.

Lightning flash! Thunder! A crackle of electricity in the air.

Valkyrie pop. Chants of war.

It emanates the desperation of the battlefield, the ugly cunning of guerillas fabricating weapons of war from out of nothing but saliva and bolts.

A flower on the precipice.

A likely story. Artists are the world's most unrepentant narcs.

Close enough to touch shadows.

The machine is a cyclops. Its other monitors are ancillary, this one watches.

In the crowded rooms of your life, faces fragment into variations of themselves.

Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

Void is exactly what it is. The body is weight, presence -- the mind is conjecture, absence.

By HOLOCENE's logic, you bear none of the blame for what happened. Everything you did was an expression of institutional logic.

Sometimes he recites them to himself, when the darkness feels total enough.

Tasting a strange syntax.

Nothing but the empty space he once deformed.

The breath of obsolescence whispers its song. A lullaby of bodily decay.

By 'ill'... does he mean 'sick'? As in, you and your Crew?

An Ultra Violeta lyric, maybe. You can imagine her saying those words.

A name from legend. A mythical creature.

CASCADE, hero of all mankind!

The artist has broken the boundaries of the panel to traverse time and space, the Hombre slithering through a chiarascuro dreamscape.

The words sing above the quiet hum of the machines in the room. They ascend through the ceiling, past the clouds that line the world, entering a realm lit perenially by the shimmer of godbeams.

An obscure pleasure, one only accessible to sensitive minds.

Whistling a new melody into existence. A dance step in the mud. The rasp of a hand-plane against cedar. Wonders yet unmapped.

Infused with transcendant meaning, somewhere between a symbol and the thing it represents, the junior negotiator's conception of the gap escapes definition.

A poorly conceived, underbaked hodgepodge of old and modern Developed World languages -- mostly from Mircea and Ile-de-Söze.

Picture a hundred guitars connected to a single amp, strumming all at once.

Symbols, repeated over and over -- a quiet process of attrition.

Malignant growths, forever squirming against each other.

It's a talisman, not a functional object. It's imbued with whatever Ramses feels towards you.

Just like the autumn fireworks you used to watch from your window as a child.

114 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 3