It's his own current condition he is describing: the terminus of mistrust.

GOSSIP-HOUNDS SHAMEFULLY FEASTING AT THE ESTEEMED DIRECTOR'S GRAVESIDE. COMRADE TWITCHITOV WAS A SHINING EXAMPLE OF PROBITY AND DISCRETION.

'Torrent'... ? Kind of sounds like...

He... wrote a case study about you?

The work: To care for yourself, even and especially when no one else does.

Let's see how his little novelty agency gets on when it encounters reality. There are no more open seats at the Big Table.

A convenient framing, allowing him to foment his own distrust at... apparently everything.

FICTITIOUS CAPITAL IS AMONG THE MOST DESPICABLE OF THE DEVELOPED WORLD'S TORTURE DEVICES.

Money now, problems later.

There's going to be some horrible catch to all this.

Gunshot echo. A cold splash. Together, infinitely resonating.

A hollowed out shape. The outline of a man.

A shape among darkness. Panting, running.

Something tells you that their teeth are yellowed with decay.

A relay of chatter. Invisible poetry that travels above and between the walking heads of the city.

You could make it longer by using the Old Calendar. According to the New Calendar, you were born in 61, but by the old method it was 2632.

Recognition like that never goes amiss.

A whisper beyond the doorframe. Ripples of frozen air, a shattered seal. Seven people stare through a window as an unseen hand taps at the glass.

Below you, the social static of the bazaar, muffled by distance.

But you get an impression of the room. A vibration. Somewhere between crime scene and radioactive accident.

Your asset called for you. Whatever's behind this, you can take it.

This is a tough watch.

True. That money goes quite some way to systematically dividing the population, whether people like it or not.

All HOLOCENE did was hunt for meaning... especially, perhaps, where it doesn't exist.

All HOLOCENE does is hunt for meaning... especially, perhaps, where it doesn't exist.

Not surprising. HOLOCENE's worldview isn't shared by many -- if anyone -- except the author of that particular book.

Artist types have their own uniform -- usually, whatever constitutes the opposite of formal.

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

Her intonation is deliberate, forced. Direct to camera, gun just off-screen.

She's getting döm'd by her sub.

She only said she's in charge of the magazine -- not the subeditor, nor the building.

A high-pressure system hovers between the two women.

Probably covering for her. Possibly in denial about her subordinate's incompetence.

Some people's baseline is kindness.

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

THE SPECTRE OF 'ART FOR ART'S SAKE' REARS ITS DECADENT HEAD.

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

Not a people person, then.

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

A shadow passes over her face. In the darkness, her pupils momentarily dilate.

Petrol fires blackening the sky over razed jungles. Mountains levelled under the ant-labour of a thousand slaves that lived and died to produce a single, gleaming shard...

Translation: please, stop, I can't take this any more.

Her face softens -- an expression you haven't yet seen.

She's holding back -- as if not doing so would not be good for her.

You glean she is... largely unimpressed.

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

This is exactly her kind of thing.

It's as though you proposed something unseemly at the dinner table.

Just because the words formed in your head, does not mean you had to speak them.

A look of worry, like she's just broken an agreement.

Checks