"They accept these millions of tiny norms because they have wild impossible things to debate over. We gave them those wild things. We gave them the word 'conspiracy'. They can argue about aliens and governments, they can argue about god, religion, life. They have so many doubts, and every action they witness is created just to raise and drain their niggling thoughts. But they don't notice, they don't even come close to seeing the truth. And they will blindly stab at the observable, and nothing will ever change, and they…. They will never know the dental industry invented teeth."

My friend, in class, she never stops breathing. She just breathes, constantly, through her mouth. So I sit and listen to her breathing, but I get scared and I look and then I listen more. Why is she breathing so loud? I worry and maybe she is breathing loud because she is having a panic attack about people noticing she is breathing loud? Or maybe she is breathing loud, because if she stops, I won’t notice and she will die, because nobody is watching her breathe.
My friend, in class, she never stops breathing.
I am saving her life.

'This is awesome', Lego thinks. He doesn't talk because he's full of Lego. Actual Lego (‘TM’, he adds) can't talk, but Lego can think and fight and use the force, sometimes.

'Just put your damn costume on', AlsoLego replies. AlsoLego is telepathic, for the sake of the game. This is never really explained in the instruction manual.

Lego excitedly rebuilds himself in the form of Obi Wan Kenobi. AlsoLego stands, dusts off her Stormtrooper garb, takes aim at Lego, and fires.

Lego's consciousness floats into the air and rushes to rebuild it's form.

‘What the heck, Also!?’

‘…Order 66.’

"Ah, I bet you thought it was all a metaphor, didn't you?"

The Man Who Sold The World chuckles thoughtfully.

"But, no. I really did sell the world. Twice, actually. Not the same man, of course, I'm not a moron. David was utterly giddy about owning the world. Ah, but most things pleased him back then. I once gave him a sugar cube, he did a happy dance."

TMWSTW looks at you.

“The other one? Some guy called Kurt or something. He had a band. I doubt they made it big. He kept holding that fucking guitar backwards. Nerd.”

If he is the weather, she is the forecast. She watches him dart and change, and makes her predictions.
She follows to steal from him, takes the shapes of his hands and makes them her own. It's more than imitation. He is fleeting, she is constant. Her low hums keep him grounded, her walking fingertips steady his quivering pick. She is quieter, deeper, stronger than him. As he pushes sound through the air, she pours her own notes beneath it. They move towards the same cause.
The Bassist looks across the room, catches his expression, and rolls her eyes.

The Universe was and is and continues to be constantly expanding. Each millennium, century, decade, year, hour, minute and second, more and more of The Universe unfolds and stretches and simply becomes.
Fresh gorges of dust and stars and planets build up and up, forcing The Universe to grow, to push out in new, reckless directions.
If it was even possible to calculate the ever increasing mass of The Universe, it would be immense, beyond immense, beyond all human and other worldly comprehension.

Which, as the doctors had all concluded, was further proof that The Universe was severely obese.

Writer sips at the cup of tea, and looks across at Block.

Block's broad figure engulfs the expensive green armchair, and gulps hungrily at his drink.

"It's rather rude, y'know", Writer begins, "to simply invade my mind, and to force me to sit in silence with you."

"..."

"Would you please consider taking your leave? I am sick of this, I do not need you. I have work to do. Could you kindly, quite possibly, remove yourself?"

Block casually scratches at his stubble and leans towards Writer.

"You got an idea yet, mate?"

Writer closes their eyes.

"Fuck. You."

Sin had howled once, when he was seven.
A panic had ensued, and he had perched on top of an old bus stop to watch it all unfold. People scattered, poured out into streets and lanes but somehow wound up grouped together, angered by their own confusion; in a mass of pure chaos.
For years after, people would tell each other about how a man had drowned in that riot. Sin would always scream with proud laughter every time he overheard that story, just like how he had howled joyously while holding that man's head under all that water.

His rough fingers take in the electricity. He plucks the melody from the air, picks it out. He can feel the movements, the sound shivering at his touch, as he pushes and pulls to form...
To form this; the vague, translucent noise that floats through the air, claiming the room as it bounces off the carpeted walls. He can feel the echoes of his contribution resonating from the floorboards and up through his being, claiming his heart before it runs through his fingers, returning to the cold instrument from where it began…
The Guitarist gives her a sly grin.

"Ah," Block says, hunching over the papers, "There's your problem."

"My...Problem?" Writer peers over his shoulder curiously.

"Y'see, you're trying to paint with words, mate. But words, well, your average word, like 'the' for example, it don't mix too well with paint. Paint ain't too fond of it either. End of the day, you’re stuck talking to your own writer's block. Get us a cup of tea, love. This‘ll be a pretty big task.”

Writer sighs in defeat, “You’re not here to help me out of this are you?”

“Hah! Help you, mate? I’d be out of a job!”

Woe sits naked in his glass box. He licks two fingers on each hand and carefully proceeds to push the paint around his body. He is black and blue, but as he drags the paint along his skin, he twists into more sinister tones.
Woe likes to watch the creatures on the other side of the box. They are painted in colours also, but the colours are not always black and blue, and do not seem to be part of them. They like to peer and shift momentum, while Woe sits in silence and chases them with his fingertips.

Oh, Franziska knew about this one. She smirked as she caught the smaller girl glancing at her whip. Yes, Franziska knew all about this one, this poor girl, this small foolish fool.
She lashed her whip once and walked slowly towards the girl. She, to her credit, did not flinch, but Franziska still heard the fear in her breath; saw the flash of lust in her eyes.
She closed the space between them, pushed the girl against the wall and gave a harsh whisper..

"My name is Franziska Von Karma, and you, Adrian, are going to ensure my victory."