Pause for a moment. Take a step back to examine what you are seeing.

PRIVATE FOUNDATIONS: COLOSTOMY BAGS FOR THE SO CALLED 'HIGH ARTS'.

It occurs to you that this little magazine may well be the sum total of this woman's life and legacy.

You often find inspiration in the allure of architecture. Use that.

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

An obscure pleasure, one only accessible to sensitive minds.

Blood hangs in ghostly shapes amid the dark waters of a ravine. Curious trout follow the trail and discover a body -- gore streams from a barbaric crater, where there was once an eye.

'Maybe I do', she thinks to herself.

Nothing fake about her reaction.

All around you: tall buildings with multiple viewpoints, from roofs and windows. You feel eyes watching you from one of them -- you may never find out whose.

'I deserve a much worse fate', she thinks to herself.

Gulp. Dry mouth. A skeleton of fear.

Deep down, she's wincing, fighting to deny the worst case scenario.

A failed metaphor, in other words.

It's been much harder than she's letting on. That magazine was her life.

There's a bit more to it than that, but she's reluctant to admit it.

You detect a slight tremor in the hand holding the book she was reading.

An officer of the Pious Order knocks twice on the door of an apartment in Mircea's ever-dwindling Arts District. The person inside does not answer, too busy throwing everything they own onto the fire in the hearth -- the smell of burning paper and plastic.

Just what he was afraid would happen.

A PORNO-GRAPHIC SIGHT FOR THE LOCAL PORNO-BOURGEOIS.

Linen in soft cream, dusty ochres and pale sand.

The cuts and drapes speak of sun-baked streets, old plazas, and afternoons that meander towards the horizon.

That's the polite way of saying 'astronomically'.

It's all posh people shite. Stylish, though.

Borderline insane.... but on the right side of aesthetics.

This man is full of excrement -- our calves are the right size!

AND WHY IS THAT? HE IS NO HERO OF THE PEOPLE, THAT'S WHY.

The flash of a gold tooth near the back of his mouth.

Machines don't make mistakes, mister.

Some weeks ago, sweat gathered on his bald head under the strap of a forehead lantern. Broad hands delicately protected by latex gloves, he rummages through the back rooms of the abandoned Essilk No. 3, hoping for a bolt of stained fabric.

Beautiful young women with eyes weakened by candlelight tend to each short-lived grub as if it were a princeling.

There seems to be no creditor in this man.

THIS SOCIOPATHIC DEBT COLLECTOR HAS BEEN CAST FROM THE SAME MOULD OF DISHONESTY AS ALL OTHER SUCH PARASITES.

How weird, right?

EMTERR deals in development loans, sovereign debts, exchange rates -- not individuals.

Why would a leviathan hunt down a single minnow?

TAXING THE FUTURE FOR TODAY -- THE WETTEST DREAM OF THE CAPITALIST.

Bankers. Big grins.

You can bet that EMTERR developed a thought-free process for this.

This might actually work on you, especially with bespoke tailoring.

IT CAN, SO LONG AS THE STATE IS THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE COLLECTIVE WILL.

Only in the abstract sense.

Baleen -- whale keratin. Also used to manufacture the cuirasses worn by Lävendi's revolutionary brigades.

That's not discipline...

Seething. Truly disgusted.

It's much more expensive than a mere toy.

By the sound of it, it's more expensive than a mere toy.

You've heard him talk, you know his arrogant, fast-talking manners -- he's faking the stutter as part of the roleplay.

Deep inside, somewhere in the bloody recesses of your genetics, something primal and long-dormant stirs.

Clay teeth. No eyes.

Checks