The most widely accepted tally: One hundred and fifty million deaths, approx. 10% of the global population.

No more distance, no more pain...

OVERTHROW THE VALUE-FORM, EXCEPT IN STRATEGIC INDUSTRIES.

Sweetish, faintly burning. The odour of leaking refrigerant.

A sickly bureaucratic rainbow, the decaying remains of the Opera's collective memory.

You might've remained forever, had the occasion not arisen to unfreeze you.

That weight is called self-awareness. Without it you may float.

No more doubt. Just the bitter clarity of forever being the one it happened to.

Yeah. Where's our fuckin' bones, like?

Frail attempts to find importance in what is an inherently meaningless and chaotic existence.

Gäng calls bullshit! There's no bigger event than putting the crew back together.

Individualism, emotion, even existence dissipates across the full stretch of eternity.

YOU ARE BEING UNDERMINED FROM WITHIN. RESIST THE NIHILISTIC TENDENCY.

BRUTE ANIMAL CUNNING IS ENOUGH TO INVENT CAPITALISM. POST-HISTORICAL MATERIALISM IS NEEDED TO TRANSCEND IT.

RUMBA! Canned coffee, even a sip of which would have made your ancestors' hearts explode.

CLAIMS THAT THE PARTY'S REPRESENTATIVE DOVE INTO THE BULLET ARE NOTHING BUT RIGHT-WING MISINFORMATION.

They're so excited they're about to explode in their grey trousers.

In the eternal struggle between main things and side things, you have chosen a side. The side of not really choosing.

Meanwhile, your assignment lies neglected by the side of the road.

Who are your superiors to decide what your real assignment is?

Sometimes there's an installment so bad that the entire franchise has to be wiped from the collective consciousness...

Even the accusation that you overindulge in guilt provokes a little pang of guilt.

It comes with a neurochemical kick, a kind of anti-high that sinks you into a delectable depression.

Entering dangerous psychic territory, abort! Abort!

There are no faces to be seen, just blurred suggestions.

Stomach. Tightening.

Lap it up, dögs. Witness the power of accumulated being.

Forgotten souls with plantar fasciitis and nothing more.

You have it in you. You are the ultra-light runner, magister of miles, a being made to set the pace for everyone else.

Shadowboxing against an invisible and in all likelihood totally imaginary opponent.

For all intents and purposes, the only answer that should matter is your controller.

NAVEL-GAZING INDIVIDUALISTIC MEDITATIONS. YOU ARE A CELL IN THE BODY OF SOCIETY, THE LOCUS IS COLLECTIVE AND EXTERNAL.

You might as well be compromised, with that attitude.

You hear a great rustling -- a million trench coats unfolding like moth wings.

Shadows are not a substance. And subatomic tunneling is a quantum event, not a lifestyle choice.

Stagecraft, elevated by mystique, becomes myth. There's great power in that.

That's easy: 10 months in a year, one moon every month, multiplied by 35... and we're in Tetartos now, so that brings us to...

Scent of metaphysical essence as yet undetected. Possible fabrication.

Your inner wolf howled at each and every one. The moon always barked back.

A testament to the power of the Operant Bureau's conditioning, preserving the original memories at sub-dream level.

Memories dormant in the paving stones and eaves are beginning to rise. The air itself grows heavy with past sensations.

Pain. No. Keep away.

This will definitely hurt. Estimated duration: eternal.

Memories projected upon a white bedsheet, rough with grain and burned by cigarettes.

And seal the doors behind you.

And who packs you off.

Just don't spend too much time there alone, you might blow your brains out.

Proposals to put assets through empathy-effacing conditioning protocols have been stymied by 'humanist' elements within the Operant bureau, creating a generation of vulnerable, emotionally-compromised spies.

During your training an old psychomancer told you that it's only in the faces of others that you come to know your own.

The book stays closed. It has a nice cover, what more do you need?

Checks