The cold stone slab of the bench looks rather uncomfortable. There are cigarette stubs…
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Inland Empire
Perception (Sight)When
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The cold stone slab of the bench looks rather uncomfortable. There are cigarette stubs all around.
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"A rather uninviting bench," the lieutenant notes. "I'm not one for sitting on benches anyway -- before the murder investigation is solved."
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You can revisit the bench if you ever need to pass the time when Lieutenant Kitsuragi is gone.
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"Hmh..." The lieutenant looks down the street. "We can sit on benches after we've solved the murder. Let's go."
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It is the dead of night. Now is not the time for sitting, but for sleeping. It is time to find a bed.
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As you gaze upon the rough stone of the bench, the plaza around you still covered with the bloodstains from the battle... you wish you could sit and alleviate the pain of your flesh.
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As you gaze upon the wooden planks, the sea breeze blowing through your hair, you wish you could sit and alleviate the pain in your body...
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Is Time flat and linear in nature... or is it cyclical? It feels as if you're so close to figuring out the answer.
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- Every so often you catch a glimpse of the sun still shining, somewhere behind the clouds of rain...
- Darkness ahead. You don't even know what you are waiting for anymore...
- You try to come up with something fresh and exciting, but the endeavour only gives you a slight headache.
- It's both dark and cold... ultimately not the best time for sitting on a stone bench.
- What events led you to sitting on a bench, completely drenched? The coast is bleak, the rain is bleak, your soul is bleak.
- The sun slowly setting behind the horizon only brings to mind the sadness of loss.
- You try to twiddle your thumbs, but ever since you've become a grandmaster the old passion just isn't there. Instead, you put your hands in your lap and wait...
- The bright sun blazing overhead is making it difficult to concentrate on deep thoughts.
- After a while of staring ahead into nothingness, you decide it's better to just move on.
- You're so close! Almost there. Ultimate dexterity is within reach...
- Is Time flat and linear in nature... or is it cyclical? It feels as if you're so close to figuring out the answer.
- It's because of all the money. Even the sky gets an aura of glistening lucre.
- The midday sun showers you with the warm rays of the spring. It does not give you many thoughts, but it feels peaceful...
- You try to think of something substantial, but your mind keeps getting caught on all the paperwork you have to do... later... eventually...
- Your fingers feel stuck. Your mind, uninspired. This place... this bench, it just lacks the right... atmosphere...
- Twiddling is surprisingly difficult... your thumbs keep getting tangled. After a while, you give up.
- You ponder upon an endless winter that covers everything in ice and snow. What a struggle it would be...
- You churn through thoughts for a while, but nothing comes up...
- Continue
- You squint your eyes, attempting to find something of interest... No, there is nothing up there except the sky.
- The twiddling barely keeps your hands warm against the frigid wind blowing from the coast... After a while you've had enough.
- You more hear than see the large drops of rain fall upon the slowly darkening mosaic...
- You can barely look up into the sky, the sun is bright and powerful... it blinds...
- You gaze at the snowflakes falling from the sky, wondering about the intricate patterns their structures take.
- The snow tells of a winter that has not yet fully passed... was this your final winter?
- The glacial gusts from the sea do not a pleasant rest make... you should probably move before you freeze.
- The sun draws ever closer to the horizon; the sky is a panorama of intense colours...
- You wonder what would happen if you tried to set foot on the sun... it would likely not be pleasant.
- A flock of seagulls flies overhead, heading towards... who knows where. Soon enough they are out of sight...
- You're hoping the sky on the coast looks different, more interesting... but in truth, it doesn't...
- You try to make out some shapes in the clouds above. Through the rain, one looks a bit like a potato...
- The sun slowly rises above the waves... each beam of light reflecting off the water into a million directions.
- The evening shade on the sand makes you think of a place which is all sand... nothing but the sand, as far as the eye can see.
- You try to twiddle your thumbs, but ever since you've become a grandmaster the old passion just isn't there. Instead, you put your hands in your lap and wait...
- Your thumbs have started to hurt from the twiddling... after a while, you stop.
- Slowly and lazily, snow drifts down through the morning haze...
- Why are you sitting around on your fat ass?! Do some push-ups, for gods' sake!!
- Could you twiddle your thumbs so hard that they come off your hands? You try... but nothing happens. You give up.
- It's getting so dark you can barely make out the snowflakes drifting down from the sky...
- You try to come up with a few deep thoughts, but the rain beating against your face is extremely distracting.
- It looks like an aerostatic, very high above...
- The sun does its best to ward off the chill of the coast... it barely helps. As if the world itself has turned against you...
- Continue
- Your hands are getting more dexterous with every attempt. Still, after a while, you give up.
- Slowly, snowflakes fall on your mutton-chops... you try to catch a few on your tongue. They are cold.
- You're so close! Almost there. Ultimate dexterity is within reach...
- What if... Dick Mullen and Man from Hjelmdall existed in the same world... in like... a... crossover?
- You gaze at the shadows deepening all around you... it's almost unnerving.
- What if the sun just one day turned off... the world thrown into an eternal darkness. A grim future indeed.
- Couldn't everyone just get along? If they really put their minds to it...?
- You finally stop picking your nose...
- Perseverance and success... feels so good. Feels inspiring.
- You wonder if it could rain so much that it drowns all of Martinaise... then everyone would have to go on about their day in diving suits.
- The sun slowly rises ever higher... the morning light makes the air feel glittery...
- The sky is overcast, rain pours onto the sand and the reeds...
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"Getting late. We should call it a day... best not sleep outside on the wind-stricken coast."
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Affecting austerity and deregulating the markets could lift Revachol out from this post-war limbo. It surely cannot fail.
Stronger unionization and nationalization of the assets could lift Revachol out from this post-war limbo. And perhaps we should also eat the rich.
We ought to kick out all the work-stealing foreigners, and women too, for that matter. That could lift Revachol out from this post-war limbo.
Moderation and balance are the keystones on this occasion... a straight median path of non-interference helps the status quo prevail.
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You try to come up with a few deep thoughts, but the rain beating against your face is extremely distracting.
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You gaze at the snowflakes falling from the sky, wondering about the intricate patterns their structures take.
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You wonder what would happen if you tried to set foot on the sun... it would likely not be pleasant.
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What if you are a member of the radical homo-sexual underground? You never even fully considered this option!
Hmm, the Race Enigma... if only you could answer Measurehead for this provocation.
Ugh, the buzz keeps wearing off... your mind deeply considers the philosophical concept of drinking-more-of-that-sweet-liquor.
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Is there a life after death? What could it be? You could go and find out... you've been close enough times already. Wipe the slate clean.
Look at yourself, Kras Mazov. It has to be you... it all fits. Everything about it. The revolutionary heart beats within.
Mm, sweet tar... flowing down your throat, deep into those lungs... the immaculate taste...
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The midday sun showers you with the warm rays of the spring. It does not give you many thoughts, but it feels peaceful...
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Hard core! Are there limits above hyper? How out of this world can you get, man?! Ultra beyond-the-barrier hardest core, motherfuckers!
How would it be possible to make Egg Head's beat even harder core?! There's got to be a new, highly experimental way.
Narcomania is rampant in this town... someone's really going to clean this shit up. That someone -- is You. Believe it, narcomaniacs!
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You try to think of something substantial, but your mind keeps getting caught on all the paperwork you have to do... later... eventually...
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What if it's possible to take superstardom to a whole new level? Upgrade the Expression and your swaggering suave...
It is perfectly normal to take a quick break during police work. It will help against possible over-exertion, in case you need to run after a crook or something...
How is it possible to be such an unbelievable fuck-up?! Every single thing ends in failure... you just can't get anything right.
The rending. It draweth ever nearer. Your blood almost boils with the anticipation...
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You try to come up with something fresh and exciting, but the endeavour only gives you a slight headache.
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Sitting on a bench on the coast... it's like a performance piece. But a performance of what?
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Would it be possible to acquire this whole coast? All this real estate... completely underdeveloped. Imagine all the tourists!
Grains of sand remind you of downtrodden people. Multitudes suffering under the harsh and unforgivable heel of capital...
Sand... just look at it. The same tone, the same consistency... this is where the strength of Revachol lies. Uniformity.
Perhaps a firmer grasp from the Coalition is necessary for maintaining order in Revachol... it's always good to have a moderating force.
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You wonder if it could rain so much that it drowns all of Martinaise... then everyone would have to go on about their day in diving suits.
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You ponder upon an endless winter that covers everything in ice and snow. What a struggle it would be...
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What if the sun just one day turned off... the world thrown into an eternal darkness. A grim future indeed.
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There has to be a way to find the way home... it feels far, but it can't be that far. It can't be gone.
Everything hinges upon the roll of the dice... the world teeters, balanced precariously on the edge. And it all seems to be leaning towards failure.
You miss the grind of the jaw... the excessive pumping of blood... the rush, the speed of it all!
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The evening shade on the sand makes you think of a place which is all sand... nothing but the sand, as far as the eye can see.
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The sand reminds you of the dusty plains. Man, if only you could roam upstream... wild ranges call your name, boiadeiro.
You wonder how your gun is doing... hopefully it's okay. You're really starting to regret the poor way you handled your own sidearm.
Contact Mike truly is an unparalleled champion, a paragon of physical and mental prowess with the most inspirational story imaginable.
You know... the sunset would look even more impressive if you had even more pyrholidon flowing through your veins...
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I am the Law. I am the Law. I am The Law.
How well would a melody complement Egg Head's aggressive beat? Can he truly craft something extremely new and exciting?
There has to be a way to open that fucking door. Unbelievable. There's no such thing as a door cops can't get into! This sucks.
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What if... Dick Mullen and Man from Hjelmdall existed in the same world... in like... a... crossover?
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Oh man, if we invited Guillaume le Million here, we could create a wave-crashing beach-party of unimaginable proportions... Speechless!
What could be more exciting than sitting on this bench on this beach? Nothing, you conclude. This is the maximum excitement possible.
This case is unsolvable... you should just give up right now and apologize to the whole town.
Come, darlings of the night sky, bringeth down upon these feckless beasts the cleansing fire! The Gloaming beckons.
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You try to twiddle your thumbs, but ever since you've become a grandmaster the old passion just isn't there. Instead, you put your hands in your lap and wait...
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Your fingers feel stuck. Your mind, uninspired. This place... this bench, it just lacks the right... atmosphere...
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Twiddling is surprisingly difficult... your thumbs keep getting tangled. After a while, you give up.
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You try to twiddle your thumbs, but ever since you've become a grandmaster the old passion just isn't there. Instead, you put your hands in your lap and wait...
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You've mastered the art of thumb-twiddling. If there were such a thing as competitive thumb-twiddling, you'd be the undeniable champion.
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Could you twiddle your thumbs so hard that they come off your hands? You try... but nothing happens. You give up.
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The twiddling barely keeps your hands warm against the frigid wind blowing from the coast... After a while you've had enough.
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You try to make out some shapes in the clouds above. Through the rain, one looks a bit like a potato...