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A strange axis of symmetry reveals itself. Two strange figures, unrelated, yet connected by an invisible filament, what you do here necessarily affects the other.

A distance grows between you as his mind wanders into the past.

The music carries her to her own pocket dimension. She has never and will never notice you.

Fancy words for a frightening statement: 'Your mind is my playground'.

Shattered teeth in a ruined mouth.

In her fantasies, a talent scout picks her off the street, carries her away, and tells her if she looks back, all will be underworld.

Perhaps you were overzealous?

A weathervane for the flow of fate.

A suffocatingly narrow way to think about firearms. You are an artist of death, your gun is your brush.

Four seasons, four phases of the moon, four to make a rock band in the heroic mode.

It is, however, exquisitely written, despite being hard to follow due to its bizarre plot points and elastic sense of time.

An orgiastic dance that, in another time, would summon a fertilitous god from the boil of the sky.

It can't be more than a few seconds, but from your perspective an eon passes. Whole civilisations rise and dissolve into the mists of oblivion before she speaks again.

There are many crimes you may commit; none worse than mediocre aesthetics.

His courage wavers, ignite him with the flame of his song!

Like a tree flaunting gnarled bark to the saplings in its shade.

For a second, you imagine her saying those words to you from the other side of a bed -- lipstick staining the pillow, hair dishevelled.

Cosmonaut explorers on an alien landscape, safely concealed from the hostile environment -- and lifeforms.

Fantasies of refuelling planes that no longer exist run through their eyes.

A painter's nightmare, etched in bodies and fire.

Terrifying sterility. The inherent cruelty of human curiosity.

A small bird flutters onto his mind's shoulder, catching him completely by surprise.

He looks like PSEUDOPOD.

If you want to eulogise him properly, use someone else's words.

Not exactly eulogistic material, but better than anything you can produce.

His aura sketched in lightning.

You weren't always so incurious. Thaw, CASCADE! Thaw your heart!

The best you can come up with is an image of a tiny Melita, reprimanding you for failures both real and imagined.

You imagine a tiny Melita sitting on the edge of a yellowed phone receiver.

You are at home here, in the secret runes of your kind. Your training should hold.

Two utterly banal words, but they're the first he's had of her in ages. He'll hold onto them like prayer beads, until all possible meaning has been rubbed off.

A shrine that only he maintains.

Right when they were about to make it big.

There are words to be traced in the loops of her cigarette light -- if only you could read the language.

The revolutionary spirit.

You could marry him for real after this, just think of all the arguments you'd never have.

An invisible machine gun, ventilating him.

A promissory note the length of recorded time -- signed by every soul on the universal registry.

The thinking man's masturbation.

Like a sorcerer who's spilled all his magic on the floor.

The outline of a woman. More specifically, her left thigh.

Does he mean Ultra Violeta... you could hardly describe her as 'mountainous'... maybe in talent terms...

Neither of you know much about socks. But unlike him, you can improvise.

Born into decay, they will always be drawn to it.

Wagging its tail.

Each Portofiran youth a potential cultural assassin-in-waiting.

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.

107 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual