flower sun and rain; sometimes you know, but then you do not. Sumio and Katherine and the universe in five gasps.

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1.

You sometimes think you are far too kind; and sometimes you wonder if this is holding you back, if this hinders you in your work; after all, there will only ever be so many times where you awake, where the plane does not sprinkle down to earth like shrapnel shooting stardust.

You almost ask of Katherine to reassure you that this is not so, but she cannot; after all, she is only a suitcase.

But she is beautiful in her stainless plasticized glory, twined to pleather wheat; and she is a better woman than you will ever deserve.

2.

Flowers and sunshine and raindrops and shudders of freckling on stars; you know what is to be done, it just cannot be defined. The people here are strange little warped creatures, the angel dancing on earthquakes and the Romanista playing his games of five-a-side with the fingers of disembodied hands limp against his neck and the girl who you very rarely catch flickers of in the spirals of corridors, always a floor above you; and you cannot define them either.

The players of this game know little of the rules; and you know little of anything.

3.

It is an impossible thing to convey the world in black and white; there are far too many colourful people, oriental silks of indigo rich like the dregs of candy cane wines and flame tongues flickering with red on the arc of the young woman's spine and lush lands of green fanned out like frills of rose petals curling to the height of their blossom; but there is sepia, and that is almost enough.

After all, many things can be washed down to grey and grit if you scratch at the paint while it is still fresh on the peels of paste skin.

You know well that all things have consequences; but when you are the one holding the paintbrush with nectar fleshes still sweet on your tongue it is very hard to think of much but the present.

4.

Katherine has done you well over the years that you can remember; but there are fragments she cannot read, and you know that the past is a far more important thing than either the present or the future.

With the present, you do not think- you act- and with the future; that shall very soon be the present, and the here and the now of now will soon be the past.

So really, none of it matters but the past; because when you get right down to it, unearth what hideous untruths lie beneath the Romanista's cold words and Mr. Edo's plasticine smiles and the stairs leading secrets down deep into the ground, everything is the past;

And that is the shattered clockwork of Lospass.

5.

One day, as your fingers flit nimbly over the metal of the number keys and work wonders with plugs and wires and things that are much easier to operate; and to fix; than humans, you speak to her.

"You are a better woman than I deserve," you say, feeling like these are words you know well.

And that is almost true.

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Extra happy super bonus points if you understand what I've just written, because I sure don't.