Someone stood on a string of bladderwrack and made it pop, and some distance away the tide was turning.

And thus did the trumpets sound one-and-twenty blasts every day; […] three soundings at the three pausings of the music, […]

Nearby was the tidier town of Tychy, a faceless Milton Keynes type of place without the roundabouts.

The future just wants more consumers. The future is more newly arrived college grads and tourists in some fruitless search for authenticity. The future is more overpriced Pabsts at dive-bar simulacrums.