Like all good 80s soap superbitches, Jilly was slutting her way around town with anyone that would help her amass a fortune and destroy her enemies.

He had looked at the clock many scores of times; and at the street, where the rain was pattering down, and the people as they clinked by in pattens, left long reflections on the shining stone: he tattooed at the table: he bit his nails most completely […]

News, here, is what does not stay news, but is reified into undeviating headlines: the stilldamp neat row of boxes which in the paper's natural order had no scarehead, containing, since there was nothing new in them since time began, likewise no alarm: —that corssection out of timespace as though of a lightray caught by a speed lens for a seconds fraction between infinity and furious and trivial dust:

Now, Mr. Cox, you must know, that half barrels seen at a distance, do not entirely unresemble cannons.