Quadrant 6

The frontlit sign on the overhanging portal read 'Quadrant 6', and the music was just as electric. It droned like nascent hunger.
  'So, it's not as easy as you think?' she asked, seethingly.
  'I want it to be.' he replied, looking solemnly at the ground. He looked away. The snowbanks were coated by the residual grays of car exhaust. 'More than anything in my life.' He paused for a moment, recollecting all fragments and blemishes leading up banks of snow-sludge; a loose trail of forgotten figments and meaningless muses. Ragged faces and ruined scenes fluttered for brief moments, sifting in and out of focus, instances of sickening clarity; inert, dead, unable to extract from the lifeless symbols any semblance of realism. 'This trail caught up, the one from the Nightless Watchtower. It goes on and off from time to time. I was there last summer.'
  'No, you weren't.' she said, forcing his gaze upon her brazen face.    'Don't lie to me.'
  'But I was. I can prove it.' his tones sunk.
'Waste of breath, as you are a waste of life.' She was practically singing.
  'I can't prove anything.'
  'And you mustn't even try. I have here a bejewelled sphere.' She plucked from her pocket a glimmering globe of latent sapphire warmth. 'The one from the tomb that you so carelessly smashed. Do you remember?'
  'So long ago... I remember.'
  'Hard to believe.'
  'But I do remember.' he said. She ignored him, tending to her own wretched devices. 'Like yesterday.'
  'Shut-up.' her tone was flatly stroked, rending the air like visible rows of verbal submission. 'Throw your mind away. I expect it.'
His mind flourished like a candy-glazed window, sticky panes, opacity on full. Her gestures were like reigns, both calming and forceful, like the stretchy second skin of a latex catsuit. They fucked mindlessly for the next three hours, thin bands of tapered black fabric cast aside. All her screams rode waves like pure prism signals, and neither a soul or skeleton could tear them apart from bliss.

Shadow Bolts and SOPA Boxes

s:-S
cc = \_

The towers were like cinder-glass cylinders, broken at areas located near defensive patterns.
She was not a sinner, but a taker. cc.


   'I don't have any with me at the moment.' she said normally. 'But why don't you stop by later? I'm sure are some lying around.' Her demeanor, much like his, was careless, affable, indicative of knowing too much and getting into the wrong kinds of places. Checkerboards were outlined on the playfields of on-screen sitenets.       
   And even the black boxes were laughed at.
   Previous to this insubordination, she was as docile as a bow of reeds, but after zero reluctance, the horizontally stacked bars of reason were de-laddering an entire contingent of reticence in the warzone of her mind.
   'Where are the blister-rings?' he asked, leaning carelessly against the wall, puffing on an Indonesian e-smoke.
   'It doesn't matter about the names.' She said. 'As long as they are regulated. The regulations for incoming and outgoing are set in a way that both systems make sense.'
   Clarity hit his mind, sharp and fresh. 'Makes sense.' he said.
   Baring morning sunlight was enough to start the day off straight. Bustling by snow banks and concrete cavalcades since the Mexican revolution. And there could be seen piles of polychromatic sitenets blotted out by symbols of noiseless black plastered skyward, their past vibrancy overshadowed by decades of impending doom. The machine of symbols was apt to condemn the circumnavigation of illiterate thinking, but it considered more greatly the monetary importance of the matter (re: The Early World War Period).


Necessary targets were pinned down by the restitution. They were worth more than whatever credit was to them given.