The haze dissipates.

What were you doing?

There are papers all around you. That’s right, custom orders. Of course you managed to do something that knocked them all over the floor while you were in blackout mode. At least there are no unsightly fluids adding stains to the mix this time.

You have to gather up all the papers and methodically go over them one by one to get them in the right order. Don’t want the corporate suit to go to his meeting with a hole in his crotch.

Then you stop.

Your eyes are focusing intently on one page. The surface is pure white, as if nothing is printed on it. No, it isn’t that. Not blank. Censored. You can almost hear the whirring of your retinas attempting to process something which they are not being allowed to see.

Now you remember the question. The question is more important than whatever minor business you have today.

You set the other papers aside on your desk before jacking into your computer. The sensation of bare skin settling against leather greets you as you settle into place in your seat. Perhaps you should have gotten dressed. It’s fine—let whoever’s running surveillance on the system have something pretty to see between watching dozens of other sweat-stained users.

You were supposed to have a document full of leads. Now it’s gone. Maybe you deleted it upon realizing that it was all bunk. Probably not.

The page weighs heavily on your mind.

There is a face you can’t remember.

(You aren’t supposed to remember.)

Your grafts itch.

You have to drop the blank page to keep from crumpling it up and tearing it to pieces. Your fingers clench and curl at the air. Your horn sparks. You are filled with an urge to throw something at the wall. Alas, there’s no empty or even full bottle of drink for you to dash on the desk.

This must have been what led you to turning on blackout mode in the first place. The temptation to turn on the haze again is high.

Your hand roves across the desk and bumps against something. You wrest enough control over your motor functions to pinch it delicately between your thumb and forefinger. It looks like a finely cut gemstone. But looks can be deceiving, you are well aware. Its shape shimmers and distorts, facets fading in and out of existence at random. It hums with power. You hold it tightly within your grasp and feel it writhe as if trying to escape.

Fleeting things. So many moments flitting by in the blink of an eye, to be lost forever.

You can’t hold on to all of them.

You stand up from your desk and begin the long-accustomed task of upending everything in your workshop until you find where you put your gun.

This is not going to be a day for dresses.

This is going to be a day for prowling.

You can’t afford to let the haze cloud your mind forever.

= = = = =

Adding Disco Elysium to the list of things I'm making references to without really understanding.