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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.

Stimulate your lobotomoid.

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.

Each heavy with significance, all of it lost on you.

It's maybe a good time to have a cigarette.

You'd know that cadence anywhere...

Far past the realm of ordinary paranoia, you have stumble into the territory of superstition, the unknown areas of maps where monsters once proliferated.

He may be a liability, but he is a beautiful one.

A shiny meadow within a tangle of dark forest.

The hallowed god of hi-vis vests and hard hats.

Terror to most. But for those with a taste for it...

Burning the image into the gelatin silver of her amygdala.

The disconnected fantasies of someone who only knows how to be alone.

You swim with sharks and jellyfish.

The 'within reason' is implied.

He died alone, in an unfamiliar room, with nothing to remind him of who he was or where he came from.

No no, this is an artistic meeting of the minds. A curatorial critique!

Failed artist types always have a few pale downward shots of their own genitals stashed somewhere. She's seen it.

He doesn't at all align with the shadowy image of a Luzian secret policeman in her head.

A name like a cat sneeze.

Memories trapped beneath dull ice.

She believes her spy-errant is about to burst down those stairs and save her from you, the mad witch.

All music? Inhuman.

714 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 8 of 15