Medium · Conceptualization ≥ 4
In the background, a quiet song seeps from her cabin into the air. You don't hear any vocals.
Intellect
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
735 · Voice lines
In the background, a quiet song seeps from her cabin into the air. You don't hear any vocals.
The pale. Sounds like the drug to me.
It's death -- but for the Universe? Oh, we're contemplating the living shit out of this.
Oh no. He's pretty much a bum now.
My money is on cool. Looks like a cubic pyrite.
This limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering is grinding to a halt. Tired of walking the desert, it doesn't want to feel or think anymore.
She must have built a new -- sadly better -- reality from the only material available: radio waves and cop shows.
Great gears are grinding to a halt. The machine is powering down. She's all out of jolt.
Cultural victory? What is this then?
What was that? An idea for an unfinished novel stuck somewhere in your fore-brain?
When she grows up, and if she grows up to be clever, she'll discover there's no such thing as a 'grown-up.'
A book with ragged edges catches your notice. The front cover features a large, muscular man. The title reads: 'Man from Hjelmdall in the Lost City of the Pygmies'.
You're part of the future-brigade now. And so is your formerly humdrum ledger. Neon, baby!
There is something blindingly modern about this symbol. Its modernness puts to shame everything you've seen before.
It's the contrast between the cheery, chemical yellow and the rigor mortis. As if the cheery guy didn't know he was dead or the dead guy didn't care that he was. Either way, you get the sense the forces of future are at work here.
This is it... this is a new era. The fabric of the world has been irrevocably altered.
Isn't that what real artists do? Make it up as they go along?