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His eyes, like flies around a corpse: tiny, ugly and relentless.

Some write bad verse on this particular subject matter and call it cathartic.

A maverick hero, fallen from grace and brought back for one last job...

It is not one for the gallery spaces, but both of their faces are most likely visible.

Ruins paved with red and white chequerboard. Frilled curtains, velvet sofa. A folly.

Murals in a dirty alley, defaced and repainted. CASCADE graffitied onto a moving train. A thousand new revolutionaries laying flowers on your grave.

Try an intimate gesture. An apology of some sort, a sincere one.

Ramping up to the chorus...

Mist hangs below the tram like gun smoke.

YO-YO. Should've been YO-YO.

You have become Pseudo-PSEUDOPOD.

It is singing the song of Ramses' own death.

Trust them to the angels for now.

Holes punctured in the tram's body, daylight stars.

Chorus incoming...

There is nothing in your future besides ritual humiliation and torture -- so take heart. You have nothing to lose and everything to overthrow.

Trust them to the angels for now.

He falls like he's praying.

He falls like he's praying.

Karolina's curse.

Darkness, thunder crack, torchlight illuminating his face.

Or listen with him. You'll die, but you will know.

For a place you'll never know.

Crushed between two walls, even in her last moments.

A strange axis of symmetry reveals itself. Two strange figures, unrelated, yet connected by an invisible filament, what you do here necessarily affects the other.

The secret meaning of this gesture will be analysed and debated by the conspiratorial community for years to come.

As much a part of it as any building, any crossroads, any patch of slate grey sky.

She knows the feeling, but not the word.

A revenant is stalking you through the city.

An anatomically correct human heart.

Half a horoscope.

This was the human game, and he played it poorly. Time to give up his seat.

Just for a moment there -- he was curious about what song you would choose.

The world, as you've found it.

Perhaps the last such aesthetic experience you'll have.

A knife in your boot. You can turn this around.

Rhythmically, like blades of a machine churning together.

A distance grows between you as his mind wanders into the past.

The music carries her to her own pocket dimension. She has never and will never notice you.

Fancy words for a frightening statement: 'Your mind is my playground'.

A polite round of applause for the support act.

A face flashes in your mind unbidden -- heavyset, boyish grin, traces of the underworld clinging to him.

Maybe he bottomed his way to the bottom.

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

Innocent use of past tense, but still, you don't care for it.

A hollow centre, expanding with every passing hour.

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

Six-headed mudskippers that feed on men, tentacled creatures that stink like a thousand corpses, giant sea urchins that paralyse their prey before devouring them while they're still alive... Yes!

A small seed of him, sprouting.

668 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual