Don't deny potential pleasures -- revel in the excesses offered by the material world!

Thousands of miles away, sad people in pressed suits wander the cold, hexagonal halls of Satellite Facility B, longing for a pop of colour.

A sense of composure bristles through you, strengthening your resolve.

That's all we've ever been and it feels right. Whether it's people, plans, or posters -- bringing things together is what we do.

Express yourself or die boring.

As if the city itself is winking at you.

A flicker of light, arranged by the cosmos, as if to wink at you.

What happened in 77?

Sour-funky-staleness. A bit of lint from the bottom of the bag fuzzes against your tongue, but you taste none of the tell-tale earwax and aspartame flavor of ecstasy.

Hazy memories flick by. Among them, you see the amalgamation of bitter flesh that birthed you, sitting like a creature in her lair.

Sniff test determines you may be dehydrated.

Sign our name to that shit, so she knows better than to fuck with the gäng again!

No boots in the house. A tidy, meticulous occupant.

A hundred old women's eyes watch this alley from behind the lacy curtains of their windows.

An electric shudder passes through the deepest canals of your body. Painless but concerning.

OPEN IT. ALL PARCELS MUST PASS THROUGH PROCEDURAL SCREENING AND CUSTOMS. JUST IN CASE.

It's quiet. No activity behind the door. Once open, you should be in the clear.

An intricate configuration that reminds you of the night sky.

There is only one security system that uses that setup, the Abwehr-Pastorius Mk. III. A legendary keypad and lock duo.

A cheat? There lies the scoundrel's way. No thrill in that, no panache!

There's something about stars and what it says about this type of lock, but it doesn't quite come to you.

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

THE ENGINEERING HAS EMBRACED PERPETUAL REVOLUTION.

The earth is alive; it breathes and shifts in its sleep. Concrete does not. The building is going to collapse.

Vertiginous patterns of broken tile swirl below you. Your head swims.

He's... Lichgäng?

You mark the features. The imperious nose. The fleshy cheeks.

PUT THIS FASCIST ROADER IN THE GROUND.

The bones of the plot are set. Already you can feel muscle and sinew begin to weave themselves around the frame.

Your stomach twists. The precipice opens.

The yellow tree. His favour.

Yellow tree. Yep, all leafed up.

Trees are trees. You do not notice trees. Boring.

Cicatriz Frontera, La Luz. Fabricators from the Ministry of Cosmonautics present three custom spacesuits for inspection. A young publicist with severely angular hair scans them, then shakes her head and says, 'She'll want one in all purple'.

Shoot him.

Exquisite.

Or maybe somebody's just been left in the dark.

You're in -- as a poet. Don't let them believe you're anything else.

Intercom looks expensive, the interference suggests a building-wide system. Nothing 'light' about this security.

The kind of places that need security intercoms: Gated communities. Government buildings. Prisons.

Seems you need a good reason to be here. Fortunately, you are trained in reverse reasoning.

Of course. When an industry dies out, its buildings are repurposed into offices for that contemporary, utilitarian feel.

WHAT IS THIS, THE MAKING FRIENDS INTERCOM? IT IS IN YOUR WAY, BATTER ITS DEFENCES.

Translucent and grotesque, like an electronic gecko molt. It will never be skin again.

Genuinely upset.

With a certain weariness, you discern.

Blaming us 'cos this bitch edged her peel game. Sick shit.

Holiday phone girlfriend. Claim her.

Skin it. NOW.

Checks