1. Why must the s_und obstruct the struggle?

2. Have we remembered?

3. Your v_ws were written long ago. Can you break them?

4. ۞We are among them.۞

5. Why has a golden fuel burnt out?

6. The smoke is spaced. Will the sister cease to smoke?

7. Why does a soldier not spin?

Ever since I left the forest I've been hearing voices. Has anyone who has been in the forest lately been hearing voices.

Anyone have a diagram or something?

The Pipevine Department Of Healthcare would like to remind you prematurely ending your life before your appointed death day is considered treason. Not only will successful attempts be circumvented, but strict fines and punishment will also be administered by the Inverted Arbiter after resurrection.

If you are unaware of your appointed death day wear a white scarf to the daily prayer. Thank you for your cooperation.

-Arbiter Tarquinius

^{SOMETIMES IT} IS ^{BETTER TO} SUFFER ^{THE BLUNT} HEAD ^{TRAUMA OF} AMNESIA ^{THAN TO} CONFRONT ^{A PAINFUL} TRUTH.

There are bodies wrapped in cloths, police and government investigators in riot gear, drones with nail guns and corpses stuffed with empty holes laid out in long rows to thwart pursuit. The image I conjure up is a drugged out numbness. Somewhere, some place, some idiot picked a fight with a cop and is getting absolutely brain-fucked by a technician or some set of metal face-wearing sadistic fanboys who have somehow been deemed fit for this shit. All these messy, slow growing fuck piles all mixing together in a sticky, dark stain along the highway.

We have not been able to find the road proper, and there is only one logical explanation for its disappearance from the map. Somebody removed it. While as I read, I make notes about how familiar it is to me, the description i picture causes me to grimace. The area is bleak and desert almost. Mourners crowd the media feeds in attendance, grief stricken and wrapped in self pity. Most of my hairs are grey with age. For the first time in my life I fear death. It's a moment of shattering truths, of truthfall. The cars are smashed to splinters. Shocking? Maybe. Suicidal? Absolutely. Sickly? No. In the ancient hospital I lived in I was old and I didn't know it, I had been mingeing in the hospital as long as I could remember. I had a dead fiancé who killed herself over my pathetic tears for years, but I was a bastard. Then my death bit me, my old self imploded into the ultimate ego death of a burned consciousness. A stark metaphorical display of the quest for self-actualization born of software and processors. A charnel house for those of us who would do well to build the fortifications to repel God's wrath. A soundproof box to keep the noise of entropy on the outside.

Do you see the problem? Do you think it isn't the day you physically die is the same day that the bleeding of your soul will stop? The pain is permanent. It has to be. It cannot be removed with touch or potion or drugs or implants or uploading. It is forever. Perhaps even harder to see, but just as intangible.

I can't tell whether I'm holding a splinters in my bones or if they're all split open. Should; I stop and wait for it to heal, lulling to sleep without the pain and a faint hope that no, indeed, I'm not coming back... I bury myself in a carpet and start rubbing myself raw. Pain. But also a tiny little bit of hope, or slowly damage this body I'm left with by plunging myself deeper into its pustulous maw?

I can't decide what I'm holding. I can see a blackened paw in my hands, oozing goo inside, crunchy shell of an arm, twisted edge and bones. I think it is mine. Pain shoots through my body, and the downpour expands through the horizon. I don't care. I'm off and running. It's so close to me. I squeeze and slowly pull out the arm. It's my arm. It's bloody. The top half is separate and broken off, like the side of a bone with the marrow bored out. I tear it out and pluck out the hard black shaft out of the husk. I can feel its bone, my bones, inside me. There is blood and mud, I think. I can feel it on my hands, too.

The investigators tear at the walls and floors, breaching into houses looking, for anything really. It's pathetic, I know, but I don't see any other way to describe this particular exhibition, except 'scavenging'. The procession includes loads of books, calendars, stuffed animals and toys all coated with metallic rot. Some of the cargo is burned as a way to mark the event of the first attack, burning it doesn't do too much anyways. At least two local report feeds say they have seen evidence that bodies have been dumped elsewhere, outside of the disaster zone. That isn't very surprising, considering. Shrapnel-pocked hospital beds are strewn with mangled limbs and bodies of the dead. Hospitals, schools, homes, shopping centers. It made no difference. As darkness falls, dozens of empty shells fired by rocket-propelled grenades litter the streets in between the dark smears once called biological.

The lack of an official government response has given rise to accusations of an apparent disregard for the civilians under attack.

8. Should this unfortunate impress the consultant?

9. The Cl_ck is fixed. How can it be broken?

10. It is good that you see.

11. Why does the ruling _bserver remain silent?

12. We know where their cl_ck is.

13. Will the democratic volunteer pick your licenced dictatorship?

14. We are trapped outside this b_dy. How can we enter?

The city bustles around you as you throw crumbs to the birds, cooing contently amid the noises of sirens and passing cars. The sidewalk shakes, and four gateways rise before you.

One orange,

One yellow,

One blue,

And one violet.

I am new to the community, please could someone enlighten me to what we do here?

Howdy there. Commander of the Company Boone, at your service.

...

...yeah, I'll lose the formalities.

I'd like to submit a proposal for a new construction project; an outpost of the 747th World Privateers.

Who should I be speaking to in regards to this'n? I should prob'ly mention, this is a kinda...sensitive...facility we're planning. Just so ya know.

The faceless ones,
they walk the streets,
their eyes turned down,
beneath their feet.

The people of the City,
like water flowing,
their daily routines,
unknown and uncared.

The currents of people,
flow through the streets,
all unique, but undiscussed.

The faceless ones on every street,
perhaps you will be the one to listen,
to hear their silent stories,
that hide beneath the veil,
of the Faceless Ones.

We were gods back then, nothing held back our minds from running rampant. The world was your sandbox and there was no bounds to be had. We made stories and mapped worlds without any stopping or after thought. We were the dreamers, but eventually most lose sight of the dream.

This place.

I love it's smell.

I love it's sounds.

Chaotic peace.

It's off the beaten path, yet in plane sight.

Sounds of chaotic peace are everywhere.

I love this place.

Along lines of tangled growth,

The city sprawls,

Shooting light out

Into the vast abyss

As the wild,

Abandoned by its inhabitants,

Is overtaken.

The travelers,

Practitioners of the City,

Walk the brightly burning streets,

Staring up at the glory

Of the Monument.

In the past the sages have threatened us

But this is different now

Something is coming from the woods

We are in good hands though

So sit back, enjoy the city lights.

Buy some scones at the shop in the corner

But have your weapons ready

You may need them...

Each sun that has ever given birth to life surrounds the Golden City like the orbital of an electron, forming a shimmering halo of quantum possibility. This is the CityBetween-Cities.

The murky umbral dreaming-place where all civilizations began and where all fallen cultures come to die: A place where they willingly come to be honoured, and to rest their weary bones. In Thrice-Blessed Dhashamon, where sleeping cities dream...

Do you remember your dream, traveller? The one from your childhood, in which the intersection by your house was part of three cities at once. It all seemed so simple when you saw the angles, so natural. That single traffic light blinking between cities in perfect harmony, as if it had always been this way, as if all roads lead to home.

Try to remember...

The greatest wonder in all the Golden City is surely the Library of Lost Civilizations, in which all of history - recorded and unrecorded, from Prometheus’ fire to the very heat death of this universe - is enshrined forever, scrimshawed onto the bones of the conquered. (Though the traffic light orchards in the New Quarter are a sight to behold.)