In Egypt, the emperor sleeps poorly.

"Step into my fucking office."

Fowler and Bennett lock horns, again.

"Whatever you want," Nathan finds himself saying when his shirt comes off over his head and his glasses hit the nightstand — like he's talking to himself, which he might as well be. "Don't think about it like should, or shouldn't. Don't think. Don't fucking try and figure it out. Come on. You can keep your shirt on."

Ammit consecrates her avatar to herself.

Susan's on the loose, and Falco walks right back into an old cage.

Longing makes the world bright and the yearner blind, he knows, but even without his want soaking through and staining it, he thinks— he would be sure.

Art for reine_des_corbeaux.

The least Nathan can do at this stage in the proceedings is show Caleb a good time.

There in that white-gilt bedroom like a tomb, where I believe none of Gatsby's guests had ever before set foot except by mistake — none until Daisy, and I was only her adjunct and proxy, an accessory to her presence there in the house. He had forgotten about me then. He had forgotten about me now. I was his only witness.