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

Above, a bottomless well, depths aglow with pale fires reaching out.

You see it: the bullet's perfect trajectory, and blood arcing in sunlight. One shot rippling across time. History wobbles like a drunk on a quay.

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

On the ground, a pool of golden tears.

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.

His tiny mind is blown.

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.

His tiny mind is blown.

Highly skilled hands have made this.

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

Uttered with great solemnity one instant then spat out like curses the next. They seemed to take on their own solidity, detached from any human situation.

The coat was supposed to help.

Great art deserves exhibiting.

Appreciate the model train.

Lightning flash! Thunder! A crackle of electricity in the air.

You've asked him to part with the feather from an angel's wing.

Speaking about her like a newly-adopted kitten.

Almost tripped by your own shadow.

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.

Valkyrie pop. Chants of war.

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

To follow him home.

There it is. The moon.

It emanates the desperation of the battlefield, the ugly cunning of guerillas fabricating weapons of war from out of nothing but saliva and bolts.

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.

As a star is dragged into a black hole, it emits periodic bursts of light that scientists liken to dying screams.

She will sing of you in a secret song someday -- and you will hear it and never know it was meant for you.

Time to deck the cancer patient in a party hat and tell them not to worry about the future.

A flower on the precipice.

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

You wonder vaguely what your stage name would have been if you, too, shined bright enough for Popstar School.

Ultra Violeta Live: From High Lunar Orbit.

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.

Or maybe only one core dream, iterated upon every night by the sleeping millions.

A likely story. Artists are the world's most unrepentant narcs.

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.

714 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 10 of 15