Your Mind
There is nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness. Your conscience ferments in it — no larger than a single grain of malt. You don't have to do anything anymore. Ever. Never ever.
An inordinate amount of time passes. It is utterly void of struggle. No ex-wives are contained within it
[...] The song of death is sweet and endless... But what is this? Somewhere in the sore, bloated *man-meat* around you — a sensation!
[...] The limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the desert. Hurting. Longing. Dancing to disco music.
An inordinate amount of time passes. It is utterly void of struggle. No ex-wives are contained within it
[...] The song of death is sweet and endless... But what is this? Somewhere in the sore, bloated *man-meat* around you — a sensation!
[...] The limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the desert. Hurting. Longing. Dancing to disco music.
— Ancient Reptilian Brain
You: Tell me, what's waiting for me?
Limbic System: There is a giant ball there. And evil apes. And the evil apes are dukin' it out on the ball. You're one of them. It's basically all just evil apes dukin' it out on a giant ball.
You: How big is the ball?
Limbic System: You can't even make out that it's a ball, when you're dukin' it out. It's that large.
You: How small are the apes?
Limbic System: Infinitesimally small.
You: And what is this "dukin' it out" I keep hearing about?
Limbic System: Vying for resources? It's just a stupid expression you picked up somewhere. The part of the presentation you want to take home is this: you have to beat the other evil apes in the face or you lose.
You: That's sad.
Limbic System: Yes it is. And you drowned in that sadness a long time ago.
You: What do mean, "drowned"?
Limbic System: You lost.
Limbic System: There is a giant ball there. And evil apes. And the evil apes are dukin' it out on the ball. You're one of them. It's basically all just evil apes dukin' it out on a giant ball.
You: How big is the ball?
Limbic System: You can't even make out that it's a ball, when you're dukin' it out. It's that large.
You: How small are the apes?
Limbic System: Infinitesimally small.
You: And what is this "dukin' it out" I keep hearing about?
Limbic System: Vying for resources? It's just a stupid expression you picked up somewhere. The part of the presentation you want to take home is this: you have to beat the other evil apes in the face or you lose.
You: That's sad.
Limbic System: Yes it is. And you drowned in that sadness a long time ago.
You: What do mean, "drowned"?
Limbic System: You lost.
You: Will I be a... ghost now?
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Brother, you already *were* a ghost. Up there, screaming — along with all of them. Scaring each other. Haunting each other. It's the living who are ghosts. The dead are silent. They don't rattle windows or write letters in blood. The living do. Leave them behind. Rest.
Ancient Reptilian Brain: Brother, you already *were* a ghost. Up there, screaming — along with all of them. Scaring each other. Haunting each other. It's the living who are ghosts. The dead are silent. They don't rattle windows or write letters in blood. The living do. Leave them behind. Rest.
That we continue to persist at all is a testament to our faith in one another.
— You
We don’t have anything to talk about anymore. Every combination of words has been played out. The atoms don’t form us anymore: us, our love, our unborn daughters…
— the ex-something
This is real darkness. It's not death, or war, or child molestation. Real darkness has love for a face. The first death is in the heart, Harry.
— the ex-something
You: I swore I wouldn't let you go. You *told* me — you asked me to be this way.
Dolores Dei: That was someone else. I betrayed her, overwrote her, and am happier for it.
Dolores Dei: That was someone else. I betrayed her, overwrote her, and am happier for it.
No, Harry. You were just talking to yourself. That's all you ever do. Even in your dreams. And the act is wearing thin, the spots of the disco ball fade around you...
— Bloated Corpse of a Drunk
Horrific Necktie: *Bratan*, now is the time!
You: Go away, necktie. You're just a figment of my imagination.
Horrific Necktie: *Bratan*, don't push me away. I want to be there for you. Also — how can you be sure *you* are not just a figment of *my* imagination?
You: Get lost, necktie! I don't want you be your friend.
Horrific Necktie: But, *bratan*... I... I understand. (the tie loosens around your neck) I just wanted you to have fun. I... I never meant to be a burden.
You: Necktie... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.
Horrific Necktie: No, *bratan*, no need for that. You and I are *bratannoi* — brothers. Brothers fight. But when they're done fighting, you know what they do? They party. They fucking party!
You: Go away, necktie. You're just a figment of my imagination.
Horrific Necktie: *Bratan*, don't push me away. I want to be there for you. Also — how can you be sure *you* are not just a figment of *my* imagination?
You: Get lost, necktie! I don't want you be your friend.
Horrific Necktie: But, *bratan*... I... I understand. (the tie loosens around your neck) I just wanted you to have fun. I... I never meant to be a burden.
You: Necktie... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.
Horrific Necktie: No, *bratan*, no need for that. You and I are *bratannoi* — brothers. Brothers fight. But when they're done fighting, you know what they do? They party. They fucking party!
Beautiful Necktie: I only ever wanted you to have fun, Harry!
You: Wait!!! I didn't even know your name!
Beautiful Necktie: My name, should you know it, is Joopson AS Men's Fashion, model "Colourful Tie." Catalogue no. J327.
You: I know so little about you. How did we meet?
Beautiful Necktie: One day a sad man walked into a clothing store. He looked really down. Like he hadn't had fun in years. He needed someone to show him how to rock and roll again. Joopson AS catalogue no. J327 shone on the tie rack, trying to get his attention. The sad man picked it up and put it on. He looked at himself in the mirror. Didn't smile.
You: Nothing will ever heal me, but at least I'll have a funny tie.
Beautiful Necktie: And from that moment on — we rode together. The rest of your clothes were still *normal* back then. But we took care of that soon enough.
You: Did we... have any fun?
Beautiful Necktie: Truthfully? Not a lot. I did everything a multi-patterned necktie can do to help a man. I mean, I tried to get you to do *all* the fun things: Drink beer, drink wine, drink cider, go to parties with young people around *and* drink beer and cider; do drugs too, so you don't fall asleep... You had *some* fun. But not enough to heal you.
You: What is wrong with me?
Beautiful Necktie: Your heart is broken, *bratushka*. And it cannot be mended. Believe me, I've tried.
You: Am I going to stay like this forever?
Beautiful Necktie: No. You're going to be mowed down by gunfire from the two remaining mercs, so no. Not forever.
You: Who broke my heart?
Beautiful Necktie: You both did, *bratan* — deep down, you know it was the both of you.
You: Wait!!! I didn't even know your name!
Beautiful Necktie: My name, should you know it, is Joopson AS Men's Fashion, model "Colourful Tie." Catalogue no. J327.
You: I know so little about you. How did we meet?
Beautiful Necktie: One day a sad man walked into a clothing store. He looked really down. Like he hadn't had fun in years. He needed someone to show him how to rock and roll again. Joopson AS catalogue no. J327 shone on the tie rack, trying to get his attention. The sad man picked it up and put it on. He looked at himself in the mirror. Didn't smile.
You: Nothing will ever heal me, but at least I'll have a funny tie.
Beautiful Necktie: And from that moment on — we rode together. The rest of your clothes were still *normal* back then. But we took care of that soon enough.
You: Did we... have any fun?
Beautiful Necktie: Truthfully? Not a lot. I did everything a multi-patterned necktie can do to help a man. I mean, I tried to get you to do *all* the fun things: Drink beer, drink wine, drink cider, go to parties with young people around *and* drink beer and cider; do drugs too, so you don't fall asleep... You had *some* fun. But not enough to heal you.
You: What is wrong with me?
Beautiful Necktie: Your heart is broken, *bratushka*. And it cannot be mended. Believe me, I've tried.
You: Am I going to stay like this forever?
Beautiful Necktie: No. You're going to be mowed down by gunfire from the two remaining mercs, so no. Not forever.
You: Who broke my heart?
Beautiful Necktie: You both did, *bratan* — deep down, you know it was the both of you.
Your Skills
This is a man with a lot of past, but little present. And almost no future.
— Inland Empire
It's death — but for the Universe? Oh, we're contemplating the living *shit* out of this.
— Conceptualization
She thinks you are an idiot, sire.
— Drama
You: What's a "contact microphone"?
Acele: A contact mic records sounds from inside things. Like this ice.
Encyclopedia: Your mangled brain would like you to know that there is a boxer called Contact Mike.
You: Yeah? Any news on my wife's name? How about my mother?
Encyclopedia: Nope. You're welcome.
Acele: A contact mic records sounds from inside things. Like this ice.
Encyclopedia: Your mangled brain would like you to know that there is a boxer called Contact Mike.
You: Yeah? Any news on my wife's name? How about my mother?
Encyclopedia: Nope. You're welcome.
Inland Empire: What if *you* only appear as a large singular body, but are actually a congregation of tiny organisms working in unison?
Physical Instrument: Get out of here, dreamer! Don't you think we'd know about it?
Volition: If it were true those organisms would *not* be working *in unison*.
Endurance: That's because some of them just don't have the best interests of the colony in mind.
Electrochemistry: Hey, maybe if the rest of you took a chill-pill every now and then, they'd be more motivated?
Perception: Shut up, we can't hear what he's saying!
Physical Instrument: Get out of here, dreamer! Don't you think we'd know about it?
Volition: If it were true those organisms would *not* be working *in unison*.
Endurance: That's because some of them just don't have the best interests of the colony in mind.
Electrochemistry: Hey, maybe if the rest of you took a chill-pill every now and then, they'd be more motivated?
Perception: Shut up, we can't hear what he's saying!
You: (smell the ledger)
Damaged Ledger: The acidic stench of rotting food has rubbed off on the cellulose. It now forms the *base* of the experience. This base surrounded by a faint air of spoiled meat — the stuff of death itself! — and then sprinkled liberally with the citrus zest of toilet cleaner.
Perception: You know — like the bits they put into public piss bowls; probably called *Fermi-Discrete* or *Axel* or something. At some point in its journey the ledger has seen the inside of a public toilet.
You: I know, I know. Sylvie already told me I dunked it in the toilet.
Perception: If you knew it was dunked in the toilet before getting chucked into the trash, why're you sniffing it?
You: Maybe, uh— Maybe it's my fetish? Maybe? Ever think of that, nose?
Perception: Garbage-toilet stink is not your fetish and you know it. Your nose does *not* fucking like this.
You: Are you angry with me, nose?
Perception: Yeah, turns out your nose doesn't like self-indulgent literal-shit huffing. *Quelle fuckin' surprise*. Come on, no more — the ledger is going back down, away from your nose now.
Damaged Ledger: The acidic stench of rotting food has rubbed off on the cellulose. It now forms the *base* of the experience. This base surrounded by a faint air of spoiled meat — the stuff of death itself! — and then sprinkled liberally with the citrus zest of toilet cleaner.
Perception: You know — like the bits they put into public piss bowls; probably called *Fermi-Discrete* or *Axel* or something. At some point in its journey the ledger has seen the inside of a public toilet.
You: I know, I know. Sylvie already told me I dunked it in the toilet.
Perception: If you knew it was dunked in the toilet before getting chucked into the trash, why're you sniffing it?
You: Maybe, uh— Maybe it's my fetish? Maybe? Ever think of that, nose?
Perception: Garbage-toilet stink is not your fetish and you know it. Your nose does *not* fucking like this.
You: Are you angry with me, nose?
Perception: Yeah, turns out your nose doesn't like self-indulgent literal-shit huffing. *Quelle fuckin' surprise*. Come on, no more — the ledger is going back down, away from your nose now.
Rhetoric: Hey, psst.
You: Who — me?
Rhetoric: Yes, you. Word on the street is you're ready to start building *communism* again!
You: "Again"?
Rhetoric: Yes — you're ready to start building communism *again*. You've built it before, *they've* built it before. Hasn't really worked out yet, but neither has *love* — should we just stop building love, too?
You: Can't argue with that.
Rhetoric: So, what about all that communism you've promised to build? Word on the street is you've woken up from a thousand years of slumber, promising to erect a version of communism many times greater than any attempted before. Is that true?
You: How come there's *word on the street*?
Rhetoric: You keep saying things like *down with the bourgeoisie*, *eat the rich*, *sodomize the land-owners*, *impale all people who have more than 25 reál in their pocket*, *literally murder all human beings regardless of their political beliefs* — that kind of stuff.
You: Oh, right. That sounds like me.
Rhetoric: Funky-style. Very funky. So tell me. Do you have any questions before we fire up the Big Communism Builder, or do we get right down to it?
You: Wait, first — what's this *communism* even about?
Rhetoric: Failure. It's about failure.
You: Failure?
Rhetoric: Yes! Abject failure. Total, irreversible defeat on all fronts! Absolutely vanquished, beaten, curb-stomped and pissed on — until *you* came along! *You* will reverse the fortune of the workers of the world. You alone, against every living thing, against every human alive: eight hundred trillion reál in the hands of an *impossibly* well organized ruling class; towering city blocks of bank-men who have the ears of prime ministers; million-headed armies of nations and the love of your own mother! You — against the atom, the charm and the spin. Where the whole world failed — matter failed to bend to human will; human will failed to get out of bed and tie its laces — you alone, single-handedly, will rebuild the dreams of the working class. You are The Last Communist. Now get to work, comrade.
You: It's too tiring. I don't have it in me. I'm beat down and broken.
Rhetoric: Very well. I guess no one will build Communism then. Tell the working man it's over. Unless anyone has... objections?
Logic: No objections. It's mathematically impossible to achieve a classless society. Everyone knows this.
Savoir Faire: Let not failure ensnare you any further, beautiful pixie girl! Be an acrobat! A prancing faerie queen!
Electrochemistry: Did someone mention cocaine? Are we doing cocaine? No? I'm sure I heard someone say Cocainimism...
Rhetoric: Anyone? Anyone else? There's no one?
Volition: There's one.
You: What should I do?
Volition: You should build Communism — precisely *because* it's impossible.
You: (Roll up your sleeves and start building Communism.)
Rhetoric: Oh yeah! Get the firing squads and the animal wagons ready!
You: Wait, what? Firing squads? You didn't say anything about those.
Rhetoric: Too late to back out now. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few million eggs!
You: Who — me?
Rhetoric: Yes, you. Word on the street is you're ready to start building *communism* again!
You: "Again"?
Rhetoric: Yes — you're ready to start building communism *again*. You've built it before, *they've* built it before. Hasn't really worked out yet, but neither has *love* — should we just stop building love, too?
You: Can't argue with that.
Rhetoric: So, what about all that communism you've promised to build? Word on the street is you've woken up from a thousand years of slumber, promising to erect a version of communism many times greater than any attempted before. Is that true?
You: How come there's *word on the street*?
Rhetoric: You keep saying things like *down with the bourgeoisie*, *eat the rich*, *sodomize the land-owners*, *impale all people who have more than 25 reál in their pocket*, *literally murder all human beings regardless of their political beliefs* — that kind of stuff.
You: Oh, right. That sounds like me.
Rhetoric: Funky-style. Very funky. So tell me. Do you have any questions before we fire up the Big Communism Builder, or do we get right down to it?
You: Wait, first — what's this *communism* even about?
Rhetoric: Failure. It's about failure.
You: Failure?
Rhetoric: Yes! Abject failure. Total, irreversible defeat on all fronts! Absolutely vanquished, beaten, curb-stomped and pissed on — until *you* came along! *You* will reverse the fortune of the workers of the world. You alone, against every living thing, against every human alive: eight hundred trillion reál in the hands of an *impossibly* well organized ruling class; towering city blocks of bank-men who have the ears of prime ministers; million-headed armies of nations and the love of your own mother! You — against the atom, the charm and the spin. Where the whole world failed — matter failed to bend to human will; human will failed to get out of bed and tie its laces — you alone, single-handedly, will rebuild the dreams of the working class. You are The Last Communist. Now get to work, comrade.
You: It's too tiring. I don't have it in me. I'm beat down and broken.
Rhetoric: Very well. I guess no one will build Communism then. Tell the working man it's over. Unless anyone has... objections?
Logic: No objections. It's mathematically impossible to achieve a classless society. Everyone knows this.
Savoir Faire: Let not failure ensnare you any further, beautiful pixie girl! Be an acrobat! A prancing faerie queen!
Electrochemistry: Did someone mention cocaine? Are we doing cocaine? No? I'm sure I heard someone say Cocainimism...
Rhetoric: Anyone? Anyone else? There's no one?
Volition: There's one.
You: What should I do?
Volition: You should build Communism — precisely *because* it's impossible.
You: (Roll up your sleeves and start building Communism.)
Rhetoric: Oh yeah! Get the firing squads and the animal wagons ready!
You: Wait, what? Firing squads? You didn't say anything about those.
Rhetoric: Too late to back out now. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few million eggs!
Rhetoric: Rise and shine, comrade. It's time to get to work.
You: What's going on?
Rhetoric: Despite all the thinking you've been doing, only 0.0001% of communism has been built. It's too great a task to undertake alone. You're going to have to *get organised*.
Endurance: Uh oh. Organisation hasn't exactly been your strong suit, historically speaking...
You: Does this mean I need to clean up my hostel room?
Rhetoric: Your level of personal upkeep is irrelevant. All that matters is your commitment to *building the World Republic*. You must seek out your revolutionary brothers and sisters. Find out how much communism they've built. Then, together, maybe you'll be able to build as much as 0.0002% of communism. But it won't be *easy*. Decades of persecution by Coalition authorities have driven the remaining communists of Martinaise *underground*.
Inland Empire: They live underground? These communists aren't men, they're *mole people*!
You: I don't know if I want to go searching for mole people.
Rhetoric: They're not "mole people", they're your comrades in the *eternal class struggle*. It's your task to find and join them.
You: Will they help me fire up Mazov's Socialist Sausage Grinder?
Rhetoric: Just between us, you may want to lay off this "grind up the bourgeoisie" stuff. It's a bit off-putting, even to fellow communists.
You: How am I supposed to find them if they're hiding?
Rhetoric: Let your *nose* guide you, detective.
You: You must mean my *knows*, as in my huge and highly functioning brain.
Rhetoric: No, we meant your nose, as in that swollen muck-detector in the centre of your face. It just happens to be *perfectly* calibrated for sensing communists.
Perception: We really have no idea what they're talking about. There's no linkage between ideology and olfaction.
You: What's going on?
Rhetoric: Despite all the thinking you've been doing, only 0.0001% of communism has been built. It's too great a task to undertake alone. You're going to have to *get organised*.
Endurance: Uh oh. Organisation hasn't exactly been your strong suit, historically speaking...
You: Does this mean I need to clean up my hostel room?
Rhetoric: Your level of personal upkeep is irrelevant. All that matters is your commitment to *building the World Republic*. You must seek out your revolutionary brothers and sisters. Find out how much communism they've built. Then, together, maybe you'll be able to build as much as 0.0002% of communism. But it won't be *easy*. Decades of persecution by Coalition authorities have driven the remaining communists of Martinaise *underground*.
Inland Empire: They live underground? These communists aren't men, they're *mole people*!
You: I don't know if I want to go searching for mole people.
Rhetoric: They're not "mole people", they're your comrades in the *eternal class struggle*. It's your task to find and join them.
You: Will they help me fire up Mazov's Socialist Sausage Grinder?
Rhetoric: Just between us, you may want to lay off this "grind up the bourgeoisie" stuff. It's a bit off-putting, even to fellow communists.
You: How am I supposed to find them if they're hiding?
Rhetoric: Let your *nose* guide you, detective.
You: You must mean my *knows*, as in my huge and highly functioning brain.
Rhetoric: No, we meant your nose, as in that swollen muck-detector in the centre of your face. It just happens to be *perfectly* calibrated for sensing communists.
Perception: We really have no idea what they're talking about. There's no linkage between ideology and olfaction.
You: Hang on, what will I do once I establish contact with my fellow communists?
Rhetoric: You'll discuss the monumental world-historical task that lies before you. You'll engage in rigorous and spirited debates about Mazovian theory and practice. But mostly you'll probably complain about other communists.
You: Isn't that last part kind of counterproductive?
Rhetoric: Not at all. Complaining about other communists is one of the most important parts of being a communist.
Rhetoric: You'll discuss the monumental world-historical task that lies before you. You'll engage in rigorous and spirited debates about Mazovian theory and practice. But mostly you'll probably complain about other communists.
You: Isn't that last part kind of counterproductive?
Rhetoric: Not at all. Complaining about other communists is one of the most important parts of being a communist.
Electrochemistry Look at her thighs, *between* her thighs and... What are you waiting for, man?! PARTY WITH MISS PAGE-THREE ALL THE WAY TO DISCO ZERO!
You: Yeah, I want to get into the groovy. Let's disco, baby. (start unzipping)
Inland Empire: ...Is what you're thinking. But you don't want to disco like this. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where the freckles only make you sad.
Electrochemistry Come on, what are you talking about — sad freckles? Freckles are fun!
You: Why do I hurt all of a sudden?
Inland Empire: The furnace has long been cold, despite itself. You're too sad to jerk off. This is not the first time it has happened either.
You: Yeah, I want to get into the groovy. Let's disco, baby. (start unzipping)
Inland Empire: ...Is what you're thinking. But you don't want to disco like this. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where the freckles only make you sad.
Electrochemistry Come on, what are you talking about — sad freckles? Freckles are fun!
You: Why do I hurt all of a sudden?
Inland Empire: The furnace has long been cold, despite itself. You're too sad to jerk off. This is not the first time it has happened either.
The funk soul brother at the back of his head has gone dark. Forever.
— Electrochemistry
No. This is somewhere to be. This is all you have, but it's still something. Streets and sodium lights. The sky, the world. You're still alive.
— Volition
There is a radio in the distance. A radio of the world. Playing sounds: Good morning, Elysium. Soon you will return to the world.
— Perception
Empathy: The tiny apes are doing all they can to be better. It's not their fault.
Rhetoric: It takes time for the apes to change. And work. Perhaps, what happened here was part of that time — and that work.
Half-Light: The apes will never change, they are all evil. End of discussion.
Rhetoric: It takes time for the apes to change. And work. Perhaps, what happened here was part of that time — and that work.
Half-Light: The apes will never change, they are all evil. End of discussion.
Half-Light: Tremble. THE TIME IS NOW. τὰ ὅλα.
You: What time?
Half-Light: Time for THE SHOW. For τὰ ὅλα. The hallowed time of fear and disintegration. A countdown has begun. All will collapse on itself. The world will disappear into a single grain of blackness. All sound will be muted. All life will scream.
You: Wait, wait — when did this *countdown* begin?
Half-Light: Monday morning. The moment you arrived in this reality. You are the first crack in the sheer face of god. From you it will spread.
You: τὰ ὅλα? What's that?
Half-Light: τοῦ λόγου δ’ ἐόντος ξυνοῦ ζώουσιν οἱ πολλοὶ ὡς ἰδίαν ἔχοντες φρόνησιν.
You: This is because of the insane world-ending I've been saying isn't it?
Half-Light: Yes. You spoke the words of the παλίντροπος, and the houses of Perikarnassis. Items, people, even WORDS will tumble, all will lose its meaning in the coming years. That is why you marked yourself.
You: I'm... a little afraid
Half-Light: So you should be. The world island crumbles at your feet and in the far plain — παλίντροπος.
Volition: Perhaps — just a thought — this has something to do with the hangover?
You: Am I sure it's not just a joke, or some kind of coping mechanism?
Half-Light: It's *totally* also a coping mechanism.
You: What time?
Half-Light: Time for THE SHOW. For τὰ ὅλα. The hallowed time of fear and disintegration. A countdown has begun. All will collapse on itself. The world will disappear into a single grain of blackness. All sound will be muted. All life will scream.
You: Wait, wait — when did this *countdown* begin?
Half-Light: Monday morning. The moment you arrived in this reality. You are the first crack in the sheer face of god. From you it will spread.
You: τὰ ὅλα? What's that?
Half-Light: τοῦ λόγου δ’ ἐόντος ξυνοῦ ζώουσιν οἱ πολλοὶ ὡς ἰδίαν ἔχοντες φρόνησιν.
You: This is because of the insane world-ending I've been saying isn't it?
Half-Light: Yes. You spoke the words of the παλίντροπος, and the houses of Perikarnassis. Items, people, even WORDS will tumble, all will lose its meaning in the coming years. That is why you marked yourself.
You: I'm... a little afraid
Half-Light: So you should be. The world island crumbles at your feet and in the far plain — παλίντροπος.
Volition: Perhaps — just a thought — this has something to do with the hangover?
You: Am I sure it's not just a joke, or some kind of coping mechanism?
Half-Light: It's *totally* also a coping mechanism.
Half-Light: Damn, that felt *good*. Your heart is pounding nicely. You should tell people to fuck off more often.
You: Fuck yeah, motherfuckers!
Half-Light: That's the spirit! Never forget: The whole world's a wooden house and you're a goddamn flamethrower.
You: Fuck yeah, motherfuckers!
Half-Light: That's the spirit! Never forget: The whole world's a wooden house and you're a goddamn flamethrower.
You: What is this strange feeling I keep having? This cold... even now?
Shivers: I AM LA REVACHOLIÈRE. I AM THE CITY.
You: What do you mean, you are the city?
Shivers: I AM A FRAGMENT OF THE WORLD SPIRIT, THE GENIUS LOCI OF REVACHOL. MY HEART IS THE WIND CORRIDOR. THE BOTTOM OF MY AIR IS RED. I HAVE A HUNDRED THOUSAND LUMINOUS ARMS. COME MORNING, I CARRY INDUSTRIAL DUST AND LET IT SETTLE ON TREE LEAVES. I SHAKE THE DUST FROM THOSE LEAVES AND ONTO YOUR COAT. I'VE SEEN YOU, I'VE SEEN YOU! I'VE SEEN YOU WITH HER — AND I'VE SEEN YOU WITHOUT HER. I'VE SEEN YOU ON THE CRESCENT OF THE HILL.
You: How are you talking to me?
Shivers: THE MODULATIONS OF MY VOICE ARE NOTED DOWN WITH THERMOMETERS AND BAROMETERS. YOU FEEL ME IN YOUR NOSTRILS, ON THE LITTLE HAIRS ON THE BACK OF YOUR NECK. I ALSO RESIDE IN YOUR LUNGS AND VESTIGIAL ORGANS. EVERYWHERE THERE IS SPACE.
Rhetoric: All this eloquence — it's in service of something. She's afraid.
You: What are you afraid of?
Shivers: DEATH — IT IS TERRIFYING. I NEED YOU TO PROTECT ME FROM DEATH. I CANNOT PERISH. LOOK AT ME. I CANNOT END. IN 22 YEARS, THE FIRST SHOT WILL BE FIRED. NOT A SHOT FROM A GUN — AN ATOMIC DEVICE THAT WILL LEVEL ALL OF ME. ALL OF ME.
You: But... what can I do about it?
Shivers: YOU ARE AN OFFICER OF THE CITIZENS MILITIA. YOU MOVE THROUGH MY STREETS FREELY IN MOTOR CARRIAGES AND ON FOOT. YOU HAVE ACCESS TO THE HIDDEN PLACES. YOU ALSO CIRCULATE AMONG THOSE WHO ARE HIDDEN. I NEED YOU. YOU CAN KEEP ME ON THIS EARTH. BE VIGILANT. I LOVE YOU.
Shivers: I AM LA REVACHOLIÈRE. I AM THE CITY.
You: What do you mean, you are the city?
Shivers: I AM A FRAGMENT OF THE WORLD SPIRIT, THE GENIUS LOCI OF REVACHOL. MY HEART IS THE WIND CORRIDOR. THE BOTTOM OF MY AIR IS RED. I HAVE A HUNDRED THOUSAND LUMINOUS ARMS. COME MORNING, I CARRY INDUSTRIAL DUST AND LET IT SETTLE ON TREE LEAVES. I SHAKE THE DUST FROM THOSE LEAVES AND ONTO YOUR COAT. I'VE SEEN YOU, I'VE SEEN YOU! I'VE SEEN YOU WITH HER — AND I'VE SEEN YOU WITHOUT HER. I'VE SEEN YOU ON THE CRESCENT OF THE HILL.
You: How are you talking to me?
Shivers: THE MODULATIONS OF MY VOICE ARE NOTED DOWN WITH THERMOMETERS AND BAROMETERS. YOU FEEL ME IN YOUR NOSTRILS, ON THE LITTLE HAIRS ON THE BACK OF YOUR NECK. I ALSO RESIDE IN YOUR LUNGS AND VESTIGIAL ORGANS. EVERYWHERE THERE IS SPACE.
Rhetoric: All this eloquence — it's in service of something. She's afraid.
You: What are you afraid of?
Shivers: DEATH — IT IS TERRIFYING. I NEED YOU TO PROTECT ME FROM DEATH. I CANNOT PERISH. LOOK AT ME. I CANNOT END. IN 22 YEARS, THE FIRST SHOT WILL BE FIRED. NOT A SHOT FROM A GUN — AN ATOMIC DEVICE THAT WILL LEVEL ALL OF ME. ALL OF ME.
You: But... what can I do about it?
Shivers: YOU ARE AN OFFICER OF THE CITIZENS MILITIA. YOU MOVE THROUGH MY STREETS FREELY IN MOTOR CARRIAGES AND ON FOOT. YOU HAVE ACCESS TO THE HIDDEN PLACES. YOU ALSO CIRCULATE AMONG THOSE WHO ARE HIDDEN. I NEED YOU. YOU CAN KEEP ME ON THIS EARTH. BE VIGILANT. I LOVE YOU.
You: Would I fit into the art world? I mean...
Conceptualization: Have you looked in the mirror lately? You have the exact features of a savage art critic, with that beard and those clothes! Disheveled and *prophetic*. Perhaps you should try to critique architecture too.
You: Hold on, is architecture also art?
Conceptualization: Of course not, it's autism. Box-drawing. Masturbation with a ruler and a sextant or whatever they use. You should demean and critize the genteel institution of architecture. While extolling the virtues of the *pure* arts.
Conceptualization: Have you looked in the mirror lately? You have the exact features of a savage art critic, with that beard and those clothes! Disheveled and *prophetic*. Perhaps you should try to critique architecture too.
You: Hold on, is architecture also art?
Conceptualization: Of course not, it's autism. Box-drawing. Masturbation with a ruler and a sextant or whatever they use. You should demean and critize the genteel institution of architecture. While extolling the virtues of the *pure* arts.
Subdue the regret. Dust yourself off, proceed. You'll get it in the next life, where you don't make mistakes. Do what you can with this one, while you're alive.
— Volition
Logic: Sorry. You're not coming up with anything. Again, the pieces are there: she could have done it, somehow, something else, wala-wala-bing-bang — it's just not coming together.
You: Walla-walla-bing-bang?
Logic: I don't know what it means, but it felt like the most appropriate thing to say. That's what the *Witch Doctor* would say, at least.
You: Walla-walla-bing-bang?
Logic: I don't know what it means, but it felt like the most appropriate thing to say. That's what the *Witch Doctor* would say, at least.
Drama: This may have been a *grave* mistake, sire.
Volition: Maybe. Maybe not. Mercy is rarely a *complete* mistake.
Volition: Maybe. Maybe not. Mercy is rarely a *complete* mistake.
Volition: In honour of your will, lieutenant-yefreitor. That you kept from falling apart, in the face of sheer terror. Day after day. Second by second.
Inland Empire: DETECTIVE
Esprit-De-Corps: ARRIVING
Authority: ON THE SCENE
Inland Empire: DETECTIVE
Esprit-De-Corps: ARRIVING
Authority: ON THE SCENE
Volition: You can do it. It's nothing. Do it for the city. Go.
Shivers: Do it for the wind.
Logic: Do it for the picture puzzle. Put it all together. Solve the world. One conversation at a time.
Shivers: Do it for the wind.
Logic: Do it for the picture puzzle. Put it all together. Solve the world. One conversation at a time.
NPCs
"Detective, each of us has our part to play in the world. My part is to solve crimes. I am under no illusion that my role isn't a minor one, in the scheme of things... but I embrace it *because* it's my role, and it's yours too, detective, whether you accept it or not!"
— Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi
"It's quite easy: every hundred years or so our species gets together to decide what's next: who gets shot in the head and who gets the mineral rights — it's a real *kerfuffle*."
— Joyce Messier
Joyce Messier: This world is enough.
Conceptualization: It *must* be. This is the greatest and kindest arrangement the atoms had in them.
Conceptualization: It *must* be. This is the greatest and kindest arrangement the atoms had in them.
You: What is Oranjese literature about?
Klaasje: Fear of failure, fear of death. How it *sucks* to be Oranjese. All national literatures are — only the name of the nation changes.
Klaasje: Fear of failure, fear of death. How it *sucks* to be Oranjese. All national literatures are — only the name of the nation changes.
"Men without ideals are only animals."
— The Deserter
"You are a violent and irrepressible miracle. The vacuum of cosmos and the stars burning in it are afraid of you. Given enough time you would wipe us all out and replace us with nothing — just by accident."
— The Insulindian Phasmid
Rhetoric: The question you mean to ask is both very complicated and incredibly simple...
Endurance: Take a deep breath. Best to go one piece at a time.
You: If communism keeps failing every time we try it...
Steban: (he waits patiently for you to finish)
You: ...And the rest of the world keep killing us for our beliefs...
Steban: Yes?
Volition: Say it.
You: ...What's the point?
Steban: (he considers your words for a minute)
Composure: You're witnessing his ironic armour melt before you. This is his *true self* you're seeing now.
Empathy: He's thinking about someone...
You: Wait, who is he thinking about?
Empathy: Hard to say. Someone dear to him.
Visual Calculus: Track his gaze. He's looking out past the broken wall, toward the opposite side of the Bay...
You: Toward the skyscrapers of La Delta.
Visual Calculus: They rise like electric obelisks in the night.
Steban: The theorists Puncher and Wattmann — not infra-materialists, but theorists nonetheless — say that communism is a secular version of Perikarnassian theology, that it replaces faith in the divine with faith in humanity's future... I have to say, I've never *entirely* understood what they mean, but I think maybe the answer is in there, somewhere.
You: Wait, you're saying communism is some kind of religion?
Steban: Only in this very specific sense. Communism doesn't dangle any promises of eternal bliss or reward. The only promise it offers is that the future can be better than the past, if we're willing to work and fight and die for it.
You: But what if humanity keeps letting us down?
Steban: Nobody said fulfilling the proletariat's historic role would be easy. (he smiles a tight smile) It demands great faith with no promise of tangible reward. But that doesn't mean we can simply give up.
You: Even when they ignore us?
Steban: Even then.
Ulixes: Mazov says it's the arrogance of capital that will be its ultimate undoing. It does not believe it can fail, which is why it must fail.
Volition: So young. So *unbearably* young...
Half Light: Why do you see the two of them with their backs against a bullet-pocked wall, all of a sudden?
Inland Empire: Their faces, blurred yet frozen as though in ambrotype. You were never *that young*, were you?
Steban: I guess you could say we believe it *because it's impossible*. (he looks at the scattered matchboxes on the ground) It's our way of saying we refuse to accept that the world has to remain... like this...
Endurance: Take a deep breath. Best to go one piece at a time.
You: If communism keeps failing every time we try it...
Steban: (he waits patiently for you to finish)
You: ...And the rest of the world keep killing us for our beliefs...
Steban: Yes?
Volition: Say it.
You: ...What's the point?
Steban: (he considers your words for a minute)
Composure: You're witnessing his ironic armour melt before you. This is his *true self* you're seeing now.
Empathy: He's thinking about someone...
You: Wait, who is he thinking about?
Empathy: Hard to say. Someone dear to him.
Visual Calculus: Track his gaze. He's looking out past the broken wall, toward the opposite side of the Bay...
You: Toward the skyscrapers of La Delta.
Visual Calculus: They rise like electric obelisks in the night.
Steban: The theorists Puncher and Wattmann — not infra-materialists, but theorists nonetheless — say that communism is a secular version of Perikarnassian theology, that it replaces faith in the divine with faith in humanity's future... I have to say, I've never *entirely* understood what they mean, but I think maybe the answer is in there, somewhere.
You: Wait, you're saying communism is some kind of religion?
Steban: Only in this very specific sense. Communism doesn't dangle any promises of eternal bliss or reward. The only promise it offers is that the future can be better than the past, if we're willing to work and fight and die for it.
You: But what if humanity keeps letting us down?
Steban: Nobody said fulfilling the proletariat's historic role would be easy. (he smiles a tight smile) It demands great faith with no promise of tangible reward. But that doesn't mean we can simply give up.
You: Even when they ignore us?
Steban: Even then.
Ulixes: Mazov says it's the arrogance of capital that will be its ultimate undoing. It does not believe it can fail, which is why it must fail.
Volition: So young. So *unbearably* young...
Half Light: Why do you see the two of them with their backs against a bullet-pocked wall, all of a sudden?
Inland Empire: Their faces, blurred yet frozen as though in ambrotype. You were never *that young*, were you?
Steban: I guess you could say we believe it *because it's impossible*. (he looks at the scattered matchboxes on the ground) It's our way of saying we refuse to accept that the world has to remain... like this...
"In the dark times, should the stars also go out?"
— Steban, The Student Communist
You: What is evil?
Scab Leader: It's just... nature. This guy, [points at the picture of the Hanged Man] he used to say evil is when nature and spirit meet in the wrong place.
Scab Leader: It's just... nature. This guy, [points at the picture of the Hanged Man] he used to say evil is when nature and spirit meet in the wrong place.
"There *needs* to be a club for anodic music in there. NEEDS TO! Everyone hates each other. Everybody hates it here, it's all just drugs and we're slaves and I *can't*... we are running out of time! We need a win, Andre. I promise this will be a win! We won't cook speed in there, we'll do it clean, we'll do it true! We'll do it sober and *real* and beautiful. This will be a victory for the light!"
— Egg Head
"Who are we to say? We're only a second signaller, not a metaphysician. This is the only reality we have ever known, so how can we judge how reasonable it might be compared to any other? The key, we believe, is to be open to meaning even amidst great uncertainty. But now we are only speaking for ourselves."
— Coalition Warship Archer
"Here is the secret: there is no love in the past. Only the present. The past is made of static images, distorted memories, demented nostalgia. This, the present — with all its possibilities, innumerable hits and misses — is far superior. It is a *living* organism."
— Measurehead
"Still, there's something inherently violent even about dice rolls. It's like every time you cast a die, something disappears. Some alternative ending, or an entirely different world..."
— Novelty Dicemaker
Thought Cabinet
Problem: People think Communism was some crazy idea that had its comeuppance 40 years ago. A fever that shook the world, never to return again. They were right. Until *he* woke up today – a spiritual corpse responsive only to the call of Commodore Red, prostitutes, and Kras Mazov. For him, Communism is still a *thing*. He will single-handedly raise the Commune of '02 from the oceanic trench where it has been resting, covered in ghosts and seaweed! He is the Big Communism Builder. Come, witness his attempt to rebuild Communism in the year '51!
Solution: 0.000% of Communism has been built. Evil child-murdering billionaires still rule the world with a shit-eating grin. All he has managed to do is make himself *sad*. He is starting to suspect Kras Mazov *fucked him over* personally with his socio-economic theory. It has, however, made him into a very, very smart boy with something like a university degree in Truth. Instead of building Communism, he now builds a precise model of this grotesque, duplicitous world.
Solution: 0.000% of Communism has been built. Evil child-murdering billionaires still rule the world with a shit-eating grin. All he has managed to do is make himself *sad*. He is starting to suspect Kras Mazov *fucked him over* personally with his socio-economic theory. It has, however, made him into a very, very smart boy with something like a university degree in Truth. Instead of building Communism, he now builds a precise model of this grotesque, duplicitous world.
— Mazovian Socio-Economics
Problem: Heartache is powerful, but democracy is *subtle*. Incrementally, you begin to notice a change in the weather. When it snows, the flakes are softer when they stick to your worry-worn forehead. When it rains, the rain is warmer. Democracy is coming to the Administrative Region. The ideals of Dolorian humanism are reinstating themselves. How can they not? These are the ideals of the Coalition and the Moralist International. Those guys are signal blue. And they're not only good — they're also powerful. What will it be like, once their nuanced plans have been realized?
Solution: The Kingdom of Conscience will be exactly as it is now. Moralists don't really *have* beliefs. Sometimes they stumble on one, like on a child's toy left on the carpet. The toy must be put away immediately. And the child reprimanded. Centrism isn't change — not even incremental change. It is *control*. Over yourself and the world. Exercise it. Look up at the sky, at the dark shapes of Coalition airships hanging there. Ask yourself: is there something sinister in moralism? And then answer: no. God is in his heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.
Solution: The Kingdom of Conscience will be exactly as it is now. Moralists don't really *have* beliefs. Sometimes they stumble on one, like on a child's toy left on the carpet. The toy must be put away immediately. And the child reprimanded. Centrism isn't change — not even incremental change. It is *control*. Over yourself and the world. Exercise it. Look up at the sky, at the dark shapes of Coalition airships hanging there. Ask yourself: is there something sinister in moralism? And then answer: no. God is in his heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.
— Kingdom of Conscience
Problem: It has been brought to your attention that you're an alcoholic. And that it's a sickness. And it's killing you. You're crawling on your knees through life, your booze-filled belly dragging on the ground, your brain now fuzzy, now in overdrive, your hair sticking together with today's cold sweat and yesterday's vomit. Perhaps they’re right. Anything is better than this. Even bone-dry reality itself. Maybe you can quit?
Solution: Congrats — you're sober. It will take a while for your body to remember how to metabolize anything that isn't sugar from alcohol, so you're going to be pretty ravenous soon. Eat plenty. You can expect your coordination and balance to improve in a couple of weeks. In two months, you might start sleeping like a normal person. Full recovery will take years, though. It'll be depressing. And it'll be boring. Don't expect any further rewards or handclaps. This is how normal people are all the time.
Solution: Congrats — you're sober. It will take a while for your body to remember how to metabolize anything that isn't sugar from alcohol, so you're going to be pretty ravenous soon. Eat plenty. You can expect your coordination and balance to improve in a couple of weeks. In two months, you might start sleeping like a normal person. Full recovery will take years, though. It'll be depressing. And it'll be boring. Don't expect any further rewards or handclaps. This is how normal people are all the time.
— Waste Land of Reality
Problem: Okay, so it looks like you've got a bit of the Normal in you. A touch of the Regular. Four grams of Johnny Normalcop. Who would've thunk it? You, the extremest of all the cops! You said some pretty boring things back there and now you have two choices: you can either leave it behind and forget about it, or you can try to utilize your normalcy. Internalize it. Get a touch of vanilla back into the herring-flavoured egg and liquorice ice cream of your mind.
Solution: You've done it, Harry! Whatever else you are, you're also *boring* now. It was *not* easy. You've spent most of your life trying to funk up every nook and cranny of your personality. When someone says something political, the first three thoughts in your head are a ludicrous hodgepodge of communism, fascism and stock tips. When they ask you why you did something, it's superstardom, apocalypse, or the *mea culpas* of a flagellant cop monk. It's not easy, reaching for the fourth option — the normal one. But you have. And now you're not *just* crazy, you're also *boring*.
Solution: You've done it, Harry! Whatever else you are, you're also *boring* now. It was *not* easy. You've spent most of your life trying to funk up every nook and cranny of your personality. When someone says something political, the first three thoughts in your head are a ludicrous hodgepodge of communism, fascism and stock tips. When they ask you why you did something, it's superstardom, apocalypse, or the *mea culpas* of a flagellant cop monk. It's not easy, reaching for the fourth option — the normal one. But you have. And now you're not *just* crazy, you're also *boring*.
— Regular Law Official
Problem: You're one sorry piece of shit. A cop penitent, a flagellant cop-monk. This is not the right line of work for you. You should be grovelling at the feet of a feudal lord, providing lurid evidence against yourself at a Mazovian show trial, or ripping the flesh from your back with a cat-of-nine-tails. Whatever made you this way — you can be damn sure it was *your* own fault. Do it. *Really* criticize yourself. Who knows? You might uncover something of importance from your guilt-ridden past!
Solution: Here it is. Hard facts from the man you are. You once jerked off in the locker room and were caught. You held a young woman by the arm and kept her in your apartment for 20 minutes against her will. That's right, these are not flights of fancy. These are *real deeds*, Harry, emerging from the darkness of your past. You tried shooting a fleeing suspect in the foot but hit him in the pelvis, crippling him for life. And above all, you let life defeat you. All the gifts your parents gave you, all the love and patience of your friends, you drowned in a neurotoxin. You let misery win. And it will keep on winning till you die — or overcome it.
Solution: Here it is. Hard facts from the man you are. You once jerked off in the locker room and were caught. You held a young woman by the arm and kept her in your apartment for 20 minutes against her will. That's right, these are not flights of fancy. These are *real deeds*, Harry, emerging from the darkness of your past. You tried shooting a fleeing suspect in the foot but hit him in the pelvis, crippling him for life. And above all, you let life defeat you. All the gifts your parents gave you, all the love and patience of your friends, you drowned in a neurotoxin. You let misery win. And it will keep on winning till you die — or overcome it.
— Rigorous Self-Critique
Problem: Your face looks like it's 58 and your body feels like it's 60. Your mind feels like it's lived for one day or a hundred. Both longer than they ought to be, the day and the century... But for how long, then, has this thing attached to your sentience walked the planet's crust? Time to start racking those brains of yours, Elder One. When and where were you born?
Solution: You were born in the year '07, in the last year of the Commune of Revachol, right before it fell. In the Old Military Hospital, on the ground floor where people usually came to die, during a snowstorm. The Revolution had about one year left to go and the fires were still burning bright. There were explosions in the blizzard. This was 44 years ago. You are 44 years old. The bloating might never leave your face, but beneath it — you still have some years. You still have some hope.
Solution: You were born in the year '07, in the last year of the Commune of Revachol, right before it fell. In the Old Military Hospital, on the ground floor where people usually came to die, during a snowstorm. The Revolution had about one year left to go and the fires were still burning bright. There were explosions in the blizzard. This was 44 years ago. You are 44 years old. The bloating might never leave your face, but beneath it — you still have some years. You still have some hope.
— Date of Birth Generator
Problem: Seems like the point of this game is *victory*. The absence of defeat on all fronts. Victory in business ventures and creative undertakings. Victory in love and over other people. Political victory. Ideological victory. Hell, even sexual victory. Definitely a lot of object-based victories, too — having things and not losing them. One problem, though: not a lot of victors in sight. Everyone’s mostly losing. Why is that? And how do you *not* lose?
Solution: How *not* to lose? It is impossible not to. The world is balanced on the edge of a knife. It’s a game of frayed nerves. You’re pushed on by numbers and punitive measures: pain, rejection, and unpaid bills. You can either play or you can crawl under a boat and waste away — turn into salt or a flock of seagulls. Your enemies would *love* that. Or you can fight. The only way to load the dice is to keep on fighting.
Solution: How *not* to lose? It is impossible not to. The world is balanced on the edge of a knife. It’s a game of frayed nerves. You’re pushed on by numbers and punitive measures: pain, rejection, and unpaid bills. You can either play or you can crawl under a boat and waste away — turn into salt or a flock of seagulls. Your enemies would *love* that. Or you can fight. The only way to load the dice is to keep on fighting.
— The Precarious World
