There was no end to the surprises of this search: things brayed to pieces as if with a pestle and mortar, things easily smashable untouched.

Bass-thrum and glass-shard music swelled slowly in volume. Despite the sound's sweetness, its painful clarity, something in Ecko shivered – it jagged at his nerves like the old fingernails-down-a-blackboard trick. It was pure power, some ma-hu-sive engine that was just turning over, warming the fuck up.

a manufactured boy band

On the left too voices were raised against this ‘statuomania’: would it not be far better to spend all that money on bread for the poor?