Subliminal messages? Backmasked indoctrinations beamed directly into the youth subconscious? Low-frequency infrasonic hypnosis?

What you love is what you are. You love Ultra Violeta. You are Ultra Violeta. Ultra Violeta is the voice of Luz... oh, okay, that's the trajectory.

As long as you can hack standing permanently in the shadow of one of your old friends.

Make them tell you about headphones guy.

THE FASCISTS HAVE REPLACED THE SYMBOL OF PEACE WITH THEIR IDOL'S SALUTE. THEY HAVE CREATED PERMANENT WAR.

Bet it's the fucking grammage.

So he knows its value... shame.

INSURBORDINATION.

You're hit by a bolt of unconditional love for dolphins and their magical ways.

He exhibits no fear whatsoever... must be a very advanced model. Maybe even missile equipped. Be nice.

Sickening.

The pre-Mircean poets-resuscitants saw pain as the soul rejecting unearned memories. Speak more, ancient wisdom man!

There is a difference -- you brush against it, but all too light, too quick.

This is bullshit.

'What is it now, CASCADE?'. The lips of the dummy remain still, and yet, the voice continues. 'Why am I naked, CASCADE?'.

But the moment slips away. The lips of the dummy remain still.

One side withers while the other remains the same -- into it, he pours the remainder of his own life.

A two-way mirror.

HER SHAM-MAN IS A BLACK ELEMENT. ALL MAGIC AND MAGE-ING IS REACTIONARY UNLESS IT WORKS.

A hallucination.

A living memory.

They will -- creeping in on padded feet, striking with a shiv to the spine.

She's seen something true, if not real.

She can concentrate more easily on the machinery; the topic occupies most of her mind.

"Out here". The material world is no longer home to her.

Stiff limbs, orange suit. The tiny cosmonaut sees the world from between two large fangs resting wet and loving on either side of his head.

Unclear. Insufficient search terms.

This is the ceremony you've been directed to perform. Its offices are lonely and obscure -- it is a ceremony of strangeness, heartlessness, and emptiness.

The Opera's psychomancers must've known you'd be keen to play this particular song on repeat -- Hoping this time the tune would come out different somehow.

A thinker and a lover of the first order.

'Blood Type: Hecatomb' is the book you want.

You're looking for blood-stained something... deep oracles...

Lesser people than you would feel embarrassed for being caught in such an act. Fortunately, you have the indifference of a low-class pervert.

How embarrassing! Caught peeping at a sleazy magazine full of what are probably under-age girls.

It would be an honour to be the ground beneath a Luzian L-56. Their tracks print the initials of their most decorated generals.

If you overdo this you're going to break the economy.

'Borrow' the luscious pen.

It's Ignatz. The Weeping Eye would not let him live.

Five feet above your head, the bedroom window. Glass still bearing the dots and lines of bedtimes past, her fingers tracing a map of stars to guide the little ones to sleep.

Because of the Miracle Line. She thinks of you as a client.

She is a hostage to the phone.

Ooh, ooh, do the torture.

Go far! All the way! Get inside, make a fist.

In retrospect, the whole thing smells like a massive set-up. Already the unseen enemy had you all in their grasp.

Your heart hollows. Just a thumping muscle where the feeling should be.

Stupid. No gifts. No drinks. No friends.

A wave of despair. The friends you abandoned, the promise of camaraderie you made a lie of.

You are going to turn him inside out with this.

Fuck that.

They began from the same point, but their lives have spiraled off in such different ways.

Checks