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Believe the hype.

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.

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?'

A few thoughts scatter, like loose paper on an empty train platform.

Above, a bottomless well, depths aglow with pale fires reaching out.

You see it: the bullet's perfect trajectory, and blood arcing in sunlight. One shot rippling across time. History wobbles like a drunk on a quay.

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

On the ground, a pool of golden tears.

The spirit of Wang reaches out to you through the pages of the book. It doesn't just want the gun to be built, but to be used. On somebody.

His tiny mind is blown.

A song of impending decomposition.

The thankless gatekeeper.

It has become so closely associated with 'cool' that desert motifs have become popular even in the Superbloc.

The hard working father and the wasteful son. Only a member of royalty is missing.

His tiny mind is blown.

Highly skilled hands have made this.

Vast, ever-expanding, a castle in the air ready to topple and dissolve.

Uttered with great solemnity one instant then spat out like curses the next. They seemed to take on their own solidity, detached from any human situation.

The coat was supposed to help.

Great art deserves exhibiting.

Lightning flash! Thunder! A crackle of electricity in the air.

You've asked him to part with the feather from an angel's wing.

Speaking about her like a newly-adopted kitten.

Almost tripped by your own shadow.

One of Ultra Violeta's songs was titled 'Holding Hands with Strangers'.

Taken all the way to the edge, then dashed upon the rocks of oblivion.

'Radio Mutual Peace and Understanding' as it's colloquially known. Very ironically.

The soul of the state on the line.

Valkyrie pop. Chants of war.

A glimpse. Then void. The stars above were unmoved. Many didn't exist in time to witness it. In the distance, pop music played.

To follow him home.

There it is. The moon.

It emanates the desperation of the battlefield, the ugly cunning of guerillas fabricating weapons of war from out of nothing but saliva and bolts.

Unmade back into synthetic polymer, the primordial soup from which a race of anti-lifeforms might emerge.

Another drop of phantom blood in the clear waters of your soul.

668 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 9 of 14