[…] free-fallers falling less than freely into (predetermined?) places, confirming the grandness of grand, the heaviness of heavy, the truthfulness of lies, the numberness of numbers.

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It had come from the west, the shock wave from some almighty earthstorm in lost America, rolling clear across the Atlantic before breaking over Thursday Island. It had smashed down buildings, and sunk the ships whose dead masts could still be seen jutting sadly from the water in the harbor.

Big omnibuses, with horses three abreast, came leisurely along, crowded outside and in exclusively with males, all on business bent. Right before me was Market-street—a grimy shoppy street […]