January 15: Lucca and Matteo observe the hours of night.

Surely in a world so vast there lie yet stones unturned— slippery things smalled for his spindling fingers to unearth.

Hamlet's not sure of the words for what's happening between them. Fortunately, Horatio is a cunning linguist.

An Erebite and a Terror confer over their grievances

William Gibson has a past, but Cornelius Hickey has a future.

It makes little sense for Tang Fan to continue to take his suppressants, after everything, so of course he stops doing that.

It feels too honest, somehow. Too desperate. Kuan-hung's too thinned out by the hour, exposed in the liminal space between his dream and now that's still folding closed, scarring over. He rubs his cheek against his pillow, ducking his head down lower, as if he can creep closer to Fu Meng-po's voice. As if there's a body nearby to press himself into, if he just reaches far enough for it.

In a public street, Goodsir gazes at another man with a less-than-scientific eye and gets more than he bargains for.

Two things are unavoidable: death and laundry.

(A take on the bathing scene from '...on the earth, and not on him', from a perspective other than Richard's.)

Ed's still looking for a human connection, and Billy Cole is the next best thing.