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714 checks

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.

Ignore her. You're definitely a real person.

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 Or maybe the more diplomatic but equally damning 'Operant withdrawn for symptoms of clinical exhaustion'.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

Believe the hype.

Make up a cryptonym for Ignatz.

Dositeo Fernandez... nevermind.

Millions-billions dead. And more.

They haven't written a word.

Closing the neat nutritional loop as the culture digests itself.

Squinting, you overlay the image of the phantom you saw at the Palace of Culture on top of this lanky young fuck.

Squinting, you overlay the image of Nestor from his t-shirt on top of this lanky young fuck.

Squinting, you overlay the image of Nestor you've seen in a hundred faded murals on top of this lanky young fuck.

Blatantly incorrect. Evidence of a malformed creative spirit.

He does not elaborate.

Bad is good, good is bad, and everything is shit. Got it.

If wretched and rancid are good... is 'grandma' an insult or a compliment...?

The sort of people making heavy 9-minute epics with a target audience of mind-altered twenty-somethings.

That's inspiration, baby.

Lights come up. Enter stage left: the attention-starved knave, mugging for any audience.

Ignore the jealous teen. This collab is already in the works.

'Did it mean nothing?'

714 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 9 of 15