“What I think of it is commentary. They together mocked the futility of writing a heavenly history in paradise.”

“A heavenly story.” It must be. Igor even emphasized the point by petting and tidying up his own hair, it was deliberately messy for today’s occasion. What was today’s occasion?

“Because if we are being honest the entirety of heavenly history is an eternally recurring fanfiction.” Leni pointed out. Being a harpist with good ears Nariel raised her glass to this remark.

Norman attempted to break more ice, “Professor Langenberg, it’s your time, you can talk to me about anything.” So Professor Langenberg spoke of the unspeakable, “Manny, when are you preparing to graduate?”

Bored Norman took a moment, “To be honest I’m unsure, perhaps in and about another year.”

Norman opened his eyes and wondered, considering what? Go read about Flemish Renaissance? So he replied, “Elsje you should know it, people like us live by counting days.”

“That’s inopportune.” That’s insolent. “I brought you a gift.” 

“…it was supposed to begin as a joke, some wanted to concentrate the trafficked people and collected souls onto an island, in turn allocating for them physical bodies and reagents of philosopher’s stone. The other said you know what’s sillier? Stop the lads’ watches.”

It seemed Scorpio liked to say a lot more about this, but he refrained. “Hears like two of them are toying with the idea of playing god (playing with gods).” Igor spilled out.

“You play god, I play god.” Scorpio commented nonchalantly.

He went in, and soon discovered the items in questions were constant dialogues between modernism and the hypermodern, he knew little about this, but was glad there are free wines. 

The work is a private photo, but for some reason more than others adopted a tilt-shift light. “Is this a pseudo-documentary about the artists, or a pseudo-artist’s real documentary? 

“I think busybody mixed the ideation between Fate and desire.” 

In the front of the house of Café Adorée stood a boring young man. Boy to be precise. His pretty face hung a kind of nondescript tired and languid sadness, he wore worn cloth in the shade of brownish green, kept a dilapidated bag, between his well-manicured hands lies a cigarette in which he sometimes gives a drag. His face and his fashionable hair garnered a lot of attention. 

Can mix dusk and dawn, can’t separate apart dusk and dawn, it looked like today Northern won’t be here. 

“Our young friend should know that in our industry talent is unimportant; talent designates everything.” Secretly applauding himself he went to read the company profiles, sightseeing that there were hors d'oeuvre, warm rain and warm wine on the side table, Igor first went to say hi to the wines, he unconsciously chose a glass of champagne, because everything is worth a celebration.

What is more trepid than academic politics? Schmoozing academic politics with foreigners. 

Igor found himself back on the board. Not multiple boards at once this time, just one. On the opposite side of the chess table sat the same Vasily Kamenev, in the blink of an eye comrade Kamenev morphed into a young woman with lovely silver hair. "Still thinking about quitting?" "Still thinking about moving on." "As much as I'd like a re-match sometime, I come to welcome you to Civitas. " "Any sacred message, Lady Solomon?”  "Be your own human, be independent." “As they were different things.”