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A glimpse. Then void. The stars above were unmoved. Many didn't exist in time to witness it. In the distance, pop music played.

There it is. The moon.

Unmade back into synthetic polymer, the primordial soup from which a race of anti-lifeforms might emerge.

Another drop of phantom blood in the clear waters of your soul.

Not too different. You both sculpt the world -- one from the dark, the other in the light.

She would've been less disappointed if you'd told her you detested it.

Wow. This impossibly beautiful Being from a Higher Plane is telling you you have existential problems.

As old as her. She is L-Pop.

A little grave in the heart.

A fugitive from one empire or another. Do angels ever truly know if they're moving through the living or the dead?

It reminds you of the final line of a poem.

This girl is adrift and in dire need of a collab! Time to make your mark. Culturally.

Desolation in different seasons.

The Tyrant Queen of the World's Wounded Heart.

A sudden vision -- shrine, priestess and angel bound within a single frame.

A bird's eye view of an impossible landscape.

You've asked an open-ended question to a teenager. Try again, laser focus.

"I'm sea-riously into you"!

Like a pig looking at wind, trying to contemplate the invisible force pushing against it.

The colour melting, pouring into you, looking for evidence of a lie.

He swallows hard. You can practically see him pushing the emotions and thoughts down his throat.

A tiny reflected Hershel stares back at you, framed in hair.

It's never going to work like that. You have to believe.

A tiny reflected Hershel stares back at you, framed in hair.

Every time that door has opened over the past few days it has been another Opera assassin. He has been killed countless times over the past few days.

The blackness between the stars, Arch Emissary of the Deathkingdom.

Rhetorical question. You're the only one standing, of course it was you.

'Muerte cruzada'. A firing squad arranged in a circle.

He plays with your potential future selves like a child with soldier toys.

A faint heartbeat from a long lost vein.

'Eszti Kavanaugh' -- it rolls oddly off your mind's tongue. 'Newitz' had a nicer syllabic flow...

You've exchanged the tyranny of history for the tyranny of the spreadsheet. A poor bargain.

The motif of dream-instruction recurs periodically throughout Mircean history and culture, most recently as a weight loss fad.

The outline begins to ripple with colours, gestures, tones. The viscera of voice and name.

Another piece of the outline begins to fill itself with colour and detail.

No, it still matters a great deal. This little corner of the outline refuses to be filled in for now.

A fellow Freezer-mate. This boat is his Satellite Facility B.

The thought itself seems to echo and rebound off the curved concrete.

You're superimposed on him.

A name uttered like some ancient curse.

A new suit, cut from old cloth.

Vehicle riding full speed ahead to the Great Nothing.

An artifact of no substance onto which nothing of substance has been recorded.

The deity acknowledges its supplicant; your heart rate ratchets up a joyful notch.

Pick one out, show her that you know your stuff -- you know, as a fellow poet.

Classic poet. Can't describe anything without a gamut of trisyllabic words.

Glad someone's standing up for The Word around here.

Decent word economy, shame about the inconsistent imagery, but it's pleasing enough to the ear.

Bloodlust. Trasmuted into its most abstract form, but pure in nature.

Perhaps all your work as an operant has just been preparing you for becoming the greatest poet that ever lived.

303 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 5 of 7