It wants to fall on them. It wants to smash bone.

Get them out of here. You're all going to be crushed.

No smell of gas, though a person suffering from chemical hallucinations would be unlikely to suspect themselves of the fact.

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

Of course! But what is the song?

Novessa, 81. Vodka, three-day old outfits, cigarettes. You all danced together to a half-broken speaker system in someone's kitchen. It was happiness, all the sweeter because it felt stolen.

Upstairs, something screams.

Trepidation.

Droplets of rain break in to party with the dust.

THEN FALL IT MUST. NOTHING THAT CANNOT BE RADICAL CAN BE CALLED COMMUNIST. THIS WAS THE PARTY LINE ALL ALONG.

Moonlight peers in to see what you're doing.

You glimpse the sky through a concrete frame, grey teeth with a grey maw.

A sacrificial offering. Better than a pigeon.

Smells like blood.

These people are like human dowsing rods for architecture that wants them dead.

The hand on its oscilloscope twitches in recognition of their voices.

Half-laughing, as if firearms are ridiculous at a conceptual level.

Dark firelights and digital snow dance behind your eyelids. Within your breast, a thrum stirs stray metal -- a deep bassline, plucking strings of pectoral muscle.

Imagine yourself as a bird, and the labyrinth grows familiar.

A seagull shits nearby, white splatter across cement.

He knew they wouldn't be the thing to kill him.

Sharing one last breath.

Bad trade.

The moments where you knew each other best.

Every tangle of nerves in your being rebels against this. A sure sign you're On To Something.

We're picking up mega-bad vibes here.

There are other terrible fates for your kind. You know of a few.

What is Melita doing right now? Is it in any way related to you? And if it's not related to you, is she maybe daydreaming of you a little bit?

Something behind all the meticulous layers of professional politesse. A hunger. Not for food nor sex nor even, really, for beauty...

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

THE VERY EMBODIMENT OF BOURGEOIS 'VALUES': PROFESSIONALISM AS ETHICS.

Planisphaerium. Transubstantiation.

It's shit.

The colour reminds you of pomegranate.

AS OUR MORAL STATISTICIANS HAVE REPEATEDLY INSTRUCTED, 'SUICIDE' IS MERELY A COWARD'S WAY TO SPIT ONE LAST TIME UPON THE PARTY.

You can tell he cleared off space for his elbows here. Leaning on the counter, no chair to be found. To the left of his left hand -- the packet of cigarettes.

Its mate. Somewhere nearby.

Memories of operant training, hours spent practicing modular addition. These mental muscles, long atrophied, begin to awaken.

Mistakes made. Friends abandoned. The redactions are merciful -- they keep our gäng intact.

Taste: Woody, bland. The laser printing gives a slight tang.

It is back to being a regular chair, with no hint of the existential terror it once supported.

There may yet be some forgiveness out there.

Halt. More secrets to consume. Very cryptic ones. Yum yum.

Taste: Sharp, almost acidic. Unusual paper type, probably very bad for you to consume.

Wait. Your secrets. You can't just leave them out like this.

A message from ourselves to ourselves.

A chorus of figures from your past shout the words at you in unison. All will be forgiven.

The second word is almost definitely 'CASCADE'. You, in other words.

Nah, this isn't right. The gäng is never sorry for what we've done, for who we are.

TAKE HEART, MUSIC BOX. YOU WILL BE A BEAUTIFUL COG IN A SHINING MACHINE.

Checks