Photons propelled through silver halide gelatine, nothing but the momentary flash of a false star.

The narrow space where anything which is not can safely exist within his mind.

As unfavourable as the scenario is, there is a comfort to seeing it lucidly played out before you.

Maybe breathing is slow-acting poison that takes eight decades to kill. Death's contingency when he can't get a clean shot at you.

HOLOCENE thinks, and the fog of war dissipates before the both of you. The landscape does not look inviting, but at least it is visible.

For a moment, you catch a glimpse of HOLOCENE's schematics, a machine of moving parts where the alteration of any single piece sends reverberations through the entire structure...

You hurt his feelings.

REACTIONARY THEORISING. HE SHOULD DIRECT THIS DOORSTOP-SIZED CRITIQUE INWARD AT HIS NEXT IDEOLOGICAL STRUGGLE SESSION.

A banishment of mirrors.

Origin point for a long-held dream of being smothered by the firmament.

Operants of the Psychic Wars!

He's attempting Functional Invisibility again. Or 'Psychogenic Translucency', as M.I.H.O. calls it.

He doesn't move -- but you swear you feel the gentle weight of a hand upon yours.

Reason through this. There will be some logic, underneath it all.

So bitter you can taste it on your own tongue.

AS THE PEOPLE ARE MOVED TO SERVE THE STATE, LIKEWISE SHALL THEY BE MOVED TO SERVE THE STORY. A RARE POINT OF CONCURRENCE.

Missteps in the chromosomal dance, without which you and everyone else would still be proteins sloshing about in the primordial soup.

A wariness in his voice. Even now he thinks the Weeping Eye may have ears as well.

An urgent question bubbles to the top of our mind.

A shiver of electromagnetic interference.

He misses this version of her the most.

Unmistakable. Parsing through his near-impenetrable theatre reports could often feel like full-tilt hallucination.

His eyes peer through an inverse cascade of smoke.

His eyes suggest that he could give you one, if you really wanted it.

He is daring you to doubt him further.

All of life's waiting rooms.

The corners of the mouth vibrate pathetically against the rags that stuff it, gagging the scream in its throat.

The day hasn't even begun, and already his hands are dripping with the blood of your sometime-asset.

ZERO OUT THE GRAND LICH OF TECHNO-FASCISM.

Your adversary's grudging acknowledgement is the greatest compliment you can receive.

No matches found in the facial archives, and yet the voice...

A natural intensity of gaze. The eyes that weigh you up do so coldly, openly, and with genuine curiosity.

This is not a man who is dying. Something, however, is very wrong with him.

... Because they should've spread out to cover off potential threats.

Some form of explosive device may have been useful.

Every grand finale needs a soundtrack.

GOOD START. NOW ACT LIKE HIM TOO.

Fair play, he thinks. If this is to be his final performance, at least it's a big stage.

None of this matters. Keep your focus on the big picture.

A measure of last resort. Reports state it being extremely painful for the recipient.

You remember asking Doctor Kharlov to describe the sensation. He brought his lighter to a piece of paper and let it burn. 'That,' he said, 'But inside.'

You can. Your fingers sink into the receiver as if the plastic were suddenly the plump, warm flesh of her waist.

It would be so very easy to believe her. As if for you and you alone, it's no act.

She casts it off, just like that. As if the phone was passed to a different person.

You need the cicada's scream, you crave it -- shrill and empty. It silences the nonsense of your dreams.

Let her beg for mercy. You want to hear it.

Kurt gets it as much as a dog gets the weather. Sometimes it's wet. Or warm. Sometimes both. All very baffling.

Crackling, soft warm smoke equal parts sweet and musky fills your mouth.

A perfectly even burn line recedes throughout the joint, a milimetre with every puff.

Your cares dissolve.

Checks