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Getting up only to mourn another ritual.

A century earlier and it could've ruled the world.

Followed by the sound of an electric saw, unhinged laughter, and a torrent of blood from the side gutters.

Under a stray shadow, stifling any noise.

Leave the door ajar. Do not lock yourself within the tyranny of the rational.

Like a day-old phone number written on the back of a young hand.

'Ritual'... 'deal'... you could easily hear Tempo exchanging one word for the other...

Dildo nom de guerre. In recognition of its heft.

Could go with TAXGIRL... Strong thematic resonance.

In the slow dip of silence, a piano melody lulls through a thin wall.

That would be killing you. You know you've thought about it. Do you want to watch?

A shrike above the thorn.

A star with no shrine.

Inadequate, weak, morose!

Awesome. You're the best poet of all time. You read it to yourself aloud every morning.

Like a bird's nest after the snake ate its fill.

An offering, the boy trussed and gagged upon a bed of flowers.

There's your 'brief', operant.

Breathing gently on his chair, he could be a sleeping child, but for the wide-open, lightless eyes.

The film is monochrome and silent. The only soundtrack is the low hum of the projector as the celluloid rushes from its spool.

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

Lapping the air like a giant child's tongue.

In some distant parts of the world, EMTERR is euphemistically called 'the Kindly Ones'. Using their true name directly is reserved for curses and insults.

An image, its negative, the image again.

The child found mutilated, stuffed into the plumbing of a hot tub.

Spoken with awe and reverence.

A crumpled paper airplane of a man.

None of these words make any sense to you, either singly or -- even less -- in combination.

An absurd reality demands an absurd performance to match.

The way he intones the word 'Mother' suggests a primitive monotheist before an image of his graven god.

A decent imitation of Cengiz Balik's style of free verse, but they could have gone harder with the adverbs.

She was his psychopomp. She carried him away from this world.

A lullaby of resignation.

It could be perfect. Blissfully unaware of your pulse as it slows, relieved, descending to its final crawl. A shrug as you depart the stage.

The sigil means 'repetition' -- it's on a lot of shop doorways and shrines. She could be using it to mark the equipment, a note to self.

Probably some kind of curse. She's cursing you.

The angels stop their shimmering and turn to watch this one perfect throw.

It was fucking magical!

The kind of song that you can only write if you know how to hope for things.

Sharing one last breath.

Hold on, are you really going to submit this carbon-copy? There's neither blood nor truth on this page.

The colour reminds you of pomegranate.

There may yet be some forgiveness out there.

Behold, an orgy of elderly audiophiles. A show not to be missed, standing room only!

Running through euphemisms in her head.

303 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 3 of 7