Wandering from one peccadillo to another like an inverted travelling circus; the world is their clown.

Obsidian, reflective, a pool of blood spills out beneath a mound of broken concrete. The sound of a keyboard comes from somewhere within, stuck on a diminished C.

THE BUILDING HAS SUMMONED THESE MUSICAL YOUTHS TO CREATE A NEW PARTY. ASSIST THEM IN THEIR FUNK ENDEAVOUR.

You danced with a lover, in the nascent stages. Lingering moments, a meeting of flesh that only you could feel. Brief enough to deny, long enough to know.

Excitement high enough to render danger irrelevant.

Fucking embarassing. We've been stripped like copper!

Or in the walls.

Their audio equipment's all bootlegged shit, inverted logos and backward numbers everywhere.

Anthropomorphism is real. It is the human mind doing its best to interpret signals from beings that communicate in more estranged ways.

Hysterectomy.

Criminally underappreciated. Retrospect will vindicate her.

The greatest advantage a machine has over man: the will to live is not required.

THE AUGMENTOID LARVAE WILL NOW SERVE THE PEOPLE.

like the very moment you rip off the cellophane that envelopes a brand new disc... Or even better, a repressed colour variant disc.

IN ANOTHER LIFE YOU SING SONGS OF LIBERATION AND BRAID CARNATIONS INTO EACH OTHER'S HAIR.

She's right.

Only a trace of sympathy.

Distantly, as if echoed through many floors of concrete, you hear him.

Fuck our faces he's going for the bäby pictures. Polite interest -- we can do it.

You feel PSEUDOPOD's unsettling gaze on you.

Quick reflexes.

He's nervous about today. Extremely nervous.

He does not give a single fascist fuck about any deathless heroes.

Fuck our faces he's going for the baby pictures. Polite interest -- we can do it.

Quick reflexes.

Push him.

There is no undercover. This is just Ramses, doing what he does.

Has he been smoking this whole time?

It probably sounds a lot more impressive on an actual drum.

Behind the customary barbed wire-tangled corpses, the outline of a riot cop suggests political rather than wanton violence, and the logo -- now that you look at it -- does seem slightly more intelligible than his usual fare.

A lighting strike that finds you when it had the whole earth to choose from.

No silence. Only the Eternal Tone, the tinnitus ringing that will play on until the end of life.

The sickly-green horizon of the Noscorrentes Sea encircles the lonely radio vessel 360 degrees.

It's your inner steel he is seeing. Disregard any criticism.

A hot fragrance of mango and mountain grass blooms through your air canals.

The soft, airy fur seems to defy gravity.

An unseen puppet master.

His familiarity toward you is, for all intents and purposes, real.

Your blood cells scream at the sound of your name on his tongue.

Way back... where?

His coat is kind of cool, actually.

You have struck the cruelest blow.

Pulled himself up by his bootstraps. Well done for him.

The opposing kingdoms of animal, mineral, and vegetable will always contest each other. Their clashing provides the fertile bed from which life springs.

His nails are white with the force he uses to grip the rifle. His gaze is fixed on the dark line of grit beneath them. Brown or red? Dirt or blood?

His fellow patriots were killed in the street, or by sniper's bullets. A few of their bodies are still in the compound behind him.

The rebel hero lies on the ground, haloed in red, a smile on his face. He knows his sacrifice will not be in vain -- he was able to inspire people to follow him in life, and so too in death, his voice will carry.

Somewhere down the line is a makeshift switchboard with six phones manned by six bored assets. One of those assets is listening in on this call.

The Housing Campaign, bathed in purple light. A man in a brown jacket and no pants looks up into the face of an angel. She regards him with radiant indifference.

One hundred photographs. A family of strangers.

Checks