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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.

Close enough to touch shadows.

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.

The machine is a cyclops. Its other monitors are ancillary, this one watches.

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.

Even mid-assignment, the tyrant queen holds his heart in her talons.

Unfamiliarity without novelty. A hell of alienation.

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

Like an epic romance from mythology, your hatred of Eszti echoes through your incarnations, undying.

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.

Like an epic romance from mythology, your hatred of Eszti echoes through your incarnations, undying.

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.

You are surrounded by representations of his mind, in all its facets and incarnations.

Her hands were not there to pray. She was trying to absorb the essence of that stone.

She is disguised as herself.

In the crowded rooms of your life, faces fragment into variations of themselves.

A black hole in human form. Devourer of stars.

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

Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

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

Void is exactly what it is. The body is weight, presence -- the mind is conjecture, absence.

HOLOCENE thinks, and the fog of war dissipates before the both of you. The landscape does not look inviting, but at least it is visible.

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

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

A hollowness to him -- a ghost whose ectoplasm has run out.

When a statement says nothing, readers are forced to invent a statement of their own, most likely in conflict with that of the author.

A faint heartbeat from a long lost vein.

668 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 10 of 14