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Strange leaves. More like seashells than any you're used to.

You let your vision decouple. The tree becomes a pleasing blur of light and shadow. It's all very aesthetic.

As though to suggest: There's a lot more where that came from.

Speaking about him in the present tense, very strange.

This man possesses exactly one talent, and it's to appear multi-talented.

Pièce de résistance levels of self-confidence.

An improvised welcoming party, here to greet the distinguished visitor from the People's Republics.

Each heavy with significance, all of it lost on you.

He may be a liability, but he is a beautiful one.

A shiny meadow within a tangle of dark forest.

The hallowed god of hi-vis vests and hard hats.

Terror to most. But for those with a taste for it...

The disconnected fantasies of someone who only knows how to be alone.

You swim with sharks and jellyfish.

He died alone, in an unfamiliar room, with nothing to remind him of who he was or where he came from.

No no, this is an artistic meeting of the minds. A curatorial critique!

She believes her spy-errant is about to burst down those stairs and save her from you, the mad witch.

It reminds you of the faces in old portraits.

The names feel heavy, irreversible. Marked in blood for offering.

Make it political, a war on the automated future.

Ignore her. You're definitely a real person.

You imagine yourself at a table on the perimeter of a city square, watching her walk towards you. You have a freshly lit cigarette, the waiter is bringing schnapps. Her face is a blur.

You imagine steam rising from her naked shoulders as she settles into the hot spring beside you. The stars are shining, there's snow on the ground. Her face is a blur.

No aesthetic sense at all.

Heavy words. Words that set machinery in motion.

It vaguely resembles a giant sausage, an organ stuffed with flesh, processed and squeezed into shape.

Precisely where an artist's signature would go.

You are about to discover what happens to people who go silo exploring on their own.

Just say something that sounds good. No need to get deep -- in fact, better if you don't.

He talks as if they're terrorists.

Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

They haven't written a word.

Blatantly incorrect. Evidence of a malformed creative spirit.

The sort of people making heavy 9-minute epics with a target audience of mind-altered twenty-somethings.

Lights come up. Enter stage left: the attention-starved knave, mugging for any audience.

A few thoughts scatter, like loose paper on an empty train platform.

Every vowel turned into a dipthong -- umistakeable Azzurri accent.

The spirit of Wang reaches out to you through the pages of the book. It doesn't just want the gun to be built, but to be used. On somebody.

A song of impending decomposition.

The thankless gatekeeper.

It has become so closely associated with 'cool' that desert motifs have become popular even in the Superbloc.

The hard working father and the wasteful son. Only a member of royalty is missing.

Highly skilled hands have made this.

Vast, ever-expanding, a castle in the air ready to topple and dissolve.

Speaking about her like a newly-adopted kitten.

One of Ultra Violeta's songs was titled 'Holding Hands with Strangers'.

Taken all the way to the edge, then dashed upon the rocks of oblivion.

'Radio Mutual Peace and Understanding' as it's colloquially known. Very ironically.

The soul of the state on the line.

303 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 7