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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.

It reminds you of the faces in old portraits.

Four hearts, four points of light, waiting for you to draw the constellation between them.

The names feel heavy, irreversible. Marked in blood for offering.

Make it political, a war on the automated future.

It's not, it's an essential concept in the latter writings of the critic Dositeo Fernandez.

You imagine yourself at a table on the perimeter of a city square, watching her walk towards you. You have a freshly lit cigarette, the waiter is bringing schnapps. Her face is a blur.

You imagine steam rising from her naked shoulders as she settles into the hot spring beside you. The stars are shining, there's snow on the ground. Her face is a blur.

'Finally lost it'? Or maybe the more diplomatic but equally damning 'Operant withdrawn for symptoms of clinical exhaustion'.

You are a cosmic mystery. Get up there, into the void. You could be the first to expose it as a fraud.

No aesthetic sense at all.

Heavy words. Words that set machinery in motion.

Tsunami of self-love.

It vaguely resembles a giant sausage, an organ stuffed with flesh, processed and squeezed into shape.

Precisely where an artist's signature would go.

You suspect your apology will bounce, inert, off the dead walls of her heart.

You are about to discover what happens to people who go silo exploring on their own.

The word 'mostly' in that sentence seems to be hiding something.

A successful poem submission might be the simplest way of doing it.

You cannot weigh a soul with guidelines.

A plucky literary aspirant, grinding away experience in the hallowed hall of art! Adorable.

Every vowel turned into a dipthong -- unmistakable Azzurri accent.

Every vowel turned into a dipthong -- the kind of intonation that disgusted Gonza over the phone.

Just say something that sounds good. No need to get deep -- in fact, better if you don't.

Ah, cop speak -- stilted, bloated, and memorised from a pamphlet.

He talks as if they're terrorists.

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

The sweet melody carries you away for a moment.

Strange eyes beneath a crown of foxglove.

An indifferent angel, visible by the light she sheds on this planet.

Believe the hype.

668 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 8 of 14