In a utility shed, a box personed dumb platinum auc, untrodden moss artificially gray except for the weeds crawling toward the doorstep. The streets were dead. I was working against myself, it felt.
Projection, continuity, yield and accentuate lists, retreated to, if once campus, within them upon entrance, then, responsively gilding itself against the visitors’ weary padding up the steps, the quavering n second, or n1, mice blithering chunks of time—and that Chane Rao, that an awful ending in the ascendency to n1 status badgered him, scope and armaments, illumination a priori n, damaged once into a war with the Tencent Dictum Team which is upcoming and once into the fervent abuse of family members and thanae nearest exits from each intrusive badgering of their sensibilities, tufts through grating, and vines. Servitude in a pulse of air and backtalk about backtalk, undertaking its scary culpability, its confidential fantasies of thermodynamic equilibrium within Ceaurgle’s purview, I survived the barren ciliary handle of this idle governance, told them their release system might unfurl a triple-batch program, and, given its proclivity for as much reallotment, a bargain. Like there’d never be another crew again.