Yet you can sense something leaking through the door seams. Unearthing. Contamination.

Humans dominate doors every day! Hurl this one back down the pecking order.

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

Stop. Don't enter, don't break this seal. This doesn't have to be yours.

Bust this door in.

This is a tough watch.

Our friend needs help -- kick the fucking thing down.

Pick the lock.

If this is the beginning... one must fear the end.

Pick the lock.

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

Or those meanings were embedded so deep that she failed to dig them out.

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.

It feels like your brain is being massaged, each stroke bringing a wave of blissful pleasure.

A rapid montage of people entering and exiting this room over a series of months. All of them wear loose-fitting outfits in mismatched colours.

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

All these rare words roll off her tongue like a second language.

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

Getting the target to fill in the blanks for you -- good form.

A hint of suspicion.

It's like she was suddenly thrust upon a stage, all her lines unrehearsed.

Janitor? That's why she's the one who let you in -- she's in charge of the doors.

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

She's getting döm'd by her sub.

She doesn't lack what's required of a boss, something else has dismantled her authority.

Having EMTERR as a sponsor doesn't come without a hefty price. She's paying for it in some way.

Must be something to do with her sponsor, the Civilisation Trust -- arrangements like that often come with a hidden cost.

Must be something to do with her sponsor -- arrangements like that often come with a hidden cost.

A TACTICALLY WORDED RETORT. SOMETHING HAS BEEN OMITTED.

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

Her jaw is bound tight.

A high-pressure system hovers between the two women.

Finding order. She enjoys this, it keeps her together, grounded.

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

Poetry is your area of expertise while you're in here, remember? Please try to uphold your cover at least a little.

Some people's baseline is kindness.

This is the answer she wants to give -- carefully avoiding any mention of her 'sponsor'.

A shudder from your filing cabinet of memories. You've heard that before somewhere...

The venn diagram is a perfect circle.

There was a desk back at Foto 24 -- the one with the red folder on it. That would work.

The only place that even half belongs to you in this city is the upstairs room at Foto 24. Find a desk in there and get to work.

The inner core of people. She wants them to rip out whatever makes them tick.

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.

Checks