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addicted to nostalgia for things you’d never known.
who’d looked like a low-key infomercial for an unnamed product.
we entered into a fixed ratio of duration with their continuum:
the sheath on the tomahawk was that flesh tone, like orthopedic devices. That was the shade they all preferred, black being considered too dressy.
She wore a suit as ambiguous as she was, either Savile Row or Jermyn Street,
“Imperialism,” said Ash. “We’re third-worlding alternate continua.
“You’ve no more questions?” “Many more, Mr. Netherton. But I prefer to wait for still more of them to arrive.”
Burton asked, seated behind Tommy, in the Faraday cage where they put prisoners.
She must have walked past this spot hundreds of times, going to school, then coming back, but it hadn’t been a place. Now, she thought, looking at the lights, the square white tent,
“that’s where George Orwell had his first publisher.” That annoying thing that tourists did, opening a feed into London’s sea of blue plaques.
“How did you know,” Netherton asked, “that it would be on its way here?” “The aunties,” said Lowbeer. “Aunties?” “We call them that. Algorithms.
