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It could be perfect. Blissfully unaware of your pulse as it slows, relieved, descending to its final crawl. A shrug as you depart the stage.

The sigil means 'repetition' -- it's on a lot of shop doorways and shrines. She could be using it to mark the equipment, a note to self.

A snorkel to messier, louder, brighter worlds. Maybe you'd have never left Mircea without them.

Wandering from one peccadillo to another like an inverted travelling circus; the world is their clown.

The angels stop their shimmering and turn to watch this one perfect throw.

It was fucking magical!

Inevitable yet strangely crushing.

The kind of song that you can only write if you know how to hope for things.

You danced with a lover, in the nascent stages. Lingering moments, a meeting of flesh that only you could feel. Brief enough to deny, long enough to know.

Born into decay, they will always be drawn to it.

Wagging its tail.

The sight reminds you of a set of stairs descending into the dark of the basement.

Sharing one last breath.

Hold on, are you really going to submit this carbon-copy? There's neither blood nor truth on this page.

The colour reminds you of pomegranate.

There may yet be some forgiveness out there.

What's coming will be ugly. You deserve something beautiful, here at the end of all things.

Criminally underappreciated. Retrospect will vindicate her.

Each Portofiran youth a potential cultural assassin-in-waiting.

Its body has been broken, but its soul lives on.

The ghost of new music.

The favourite euphemism of smugglers and bootleggers.

Silence is worth more than a thousand promises.

Nice way to describe a brother of the drink.

Behold, an orgy of elderly audiophiles. A show not to be missed, standing room only!

Running through euphemisms in her head.

A ham-fisted attempt at creating character depth, predictable even for a fascist.

Technical words that only mean something to those with the prerequisite knowledge.

Strange leaves. More like seashells than any you're used to.

You let your vision decouple. The tree becomes a pleasing blur of light and shadow. It's all very aesthetic.

And in each eye, a tear. A hundred assets. A hundred vanishings.

Around the ceremony, another ceremony -- above it, below it, enveloping it.

Behind the customary barbed wire-tangled corpses, the outline of a riot cop suggests political rather than wanton violence, and the logo -- now that you look at it -- does seem slightly more intelligible than his usual fare.

A delicate ship constructed out of the flotsam of spy dramas and revenge fantasies sails headlong toward this rock, where it will shatter into a thousand lacerating crystals.

A platonic loathing, based purely on musical taste. If placed in a jar together they would kill each other out of spite.

A lighting strike that finds you when it had the whole earth to choose from.

As though to suggest: There's a lot more where that came from.

How about a self-portrait, or a still shot of a beautiful landscape?

His dedication to metaphor is respectable, obfuscatory, serene -- a probable disciple of Dositeo Fernandez.

According to Dositeo Fernandez, the market has no edges, it is an amorphous, asexual blob.

Speaking about him in the present tense, very strange.

This man possesses exactly one talent, and it's to appear multi-talented.

A flash of inspiration? He seems to be drowning in it.

Can't you just solve this fucking thing and be done with it?

Trapped between hack-hire genre fiction, philosophical exploration and straight up gore fetish smut, the book cackles in your hands.

Pièce de résistance levels of self-confidence.

An improvised welcoming party, here to greet the distinguished visitor from the People's Republics.

668 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 7 of 14