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Perhaps the mountain will keep a little of your voice. For company.

Dormant stars waiting for ignition.

You at least deserve to be judged by someone with an eye that has been trained by years of experience.

This promotes the analysis of soul-work as if it were a logic puzzle. It's pity-inducing.

If PSEUDOPOD's pants were attempting to flee the scene, they did not make it very far.

She's not the intended readership.

Crayon ground down, unsteady handwriting, two-headed creature as emotional proxy.

HARD CUT to his tiny face. CRASH ZOOM -- his golden eyes flash.

The beauty of ciphers.

Eerily familiar now. The text almost recites itself.

You and HOLOCENE the loving parents-in-waiting.

The cipher wavers like a mirage -- a madman's shopping list, equal parts banality and wonder.

From a nearby apartment, the muffled sound of a beautifully-played piano gently shifting key.

The voice on the other end of the phone.

The description of a work of art as a literary device!

Onomatopoeia for a dog coughing up its tonsils.

It's the vibration of the earth as a drill passes through your brain.

It reminds you of a cosmonaut's safety tether.

Suddenly sentimental -- the emotional quick change of a ravaged alcoholic.

Scaly reliefs and cracked plates, like some diseased armour.

That's a lot of scepticism around 'reported' and 'disappeared'.

More intimate than a static image -- you create a new picture of her in your mind every day.

A snorkel to messier, louder, brighter worlds. Maybe you'd have never left Mircea without them.

Inevitable yet strangely crushing.

The sight reminds you of a set of stairs descending into the dark of the basement.

Its body has been broken, but its soul lives on.

The favourite euphemism of smugglers and bootleggers.

Silence is worth more than a thousand promises.

Nice way to describe a brother of the drink.

Technical words that only mean something to those with the prerequisite knowledge.

A platonic loathing, based purely on musical taste. If placed in a jar together they would kill each other out of spite.

How about a self-portrait, or a still shot of a beautiful landscape?

Can't you just solve this fucking thing and be done with it?

Trapped between hack-hire genre fiction, philosophical exploration and straight up gore fetish smut, the book cackles in your hands.

You'd know that cadence anywhere...

Far past the realm of ordinary paranoia, you have stumble into the territory of superstition, the unknown areas of maps where monsters once proliferated.

The 'within reason' is implied.

He doesn't at all align with the shadowy image of a Luzian secret policeman in her head.

Memories trapped beneath dull ice.

All music? Inhuman.

'Finally lost it'? Or maybe the more diplomatic but equally damning 'Operant withdrawn for symptoms of clinical exhaustion'.

Tsunami of self-love.

You suspect your apology will bounce, inert, off the dead walls of her heart.

The word 'mostly' in that sentence seems to be hiding something.

You cannot weigh a soul with guidelines.

A plucky literary aspirant, grinding away experience in the hallowed hall of art! Adorable.

Every vowel turned into a dipthong -- unmistakable Azzurri accent.

Every vowel turned into a dipthong -- the kind of intonation that disgusted Gonza over the phone.

Ah, cop speak -- stilted, bloated, and memorised from a pamphlet.

151 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 4