Jerusalem

by Alan Moore

She circles beautifully without effect, one of her inner oars misplaced.

The several billion apes with improved posture

Alma composes a few dozen chapter headings, phrases that seem funny, resonant or smugly clever to her, and makes tiny notes beside each one suggesting what ideas or episodes that chapter might include.

these anonymous dust-bunnies who got lost forever underneath the huge, immobile wardrobe of the twentieth century.

Her personality is a long-running radio drama that is broadcast chiefly for her own amusement, much as she suspects is true of many people.

Alma recalls the rumour of an entire cyclops-village somewhere out near Towcester, full of cyclops postmen, cyclops publicans and cyclops toddlers, then remembers it was her that started it.

She thinks it highly probable that she’d eventually leave the handbag in a café, whereas it’s unlikely that she’d leave her trousers. Not out of the question, but unlikely.

If Alma didn’t know Bob personally, and if he wasn’t currently researching stuff on her behalf pertaining to tomorrow’s exhibition, then she’d have him taken out by snipers;

Lucy had been forced to start out working solo as the 1-Strong Crew before an influx of new member meant that she could upgrade to the 2-Strong Crew.

drags him cursing from the sludge like an uprooted Tourette’s carrot

Good luck to you, especially to you, Saint Thomas, and congratulations on avoiding the decomposition. THOMAS BECKET: Hm. Yes, well, thank you … though I cannot think in all humility that it was through some effort on my own part.

it’s free will or free Will Shakespeare

a hobbit stuck in quarantine with spearmint rabies dripping off my chin

Warren’s old district ain’t just on the wrong side of the tracks, it’s on the tracks themselves, in pieces and squashed flat by near eight hundred years of rumbling social locomotion.

Her expression had been like a knife fight between pity and contempt while incredulity looked on and didn’t do a damned thing.

his previously stone-cold trail is warming up, and by the time he’s read a paragraph or two it’s sizzling like a black Texan guy with learning disabilities in the electric chair.

He’s seen more crazy hunches in his long career than Notre Dame cathedral

Rotated slowly on a spit of wakefulness and perspiration-glazed, Mick Warren is a hominid kebab that slumber has regurgitated in the dreamless gutter-troughs of an unending Friday evening.

Quantum or nation, states collapse when looked at.

the Suez crisis prime minister’s trouble and strife, although by no means all of it.

an ant farm scraping by on aphid subsidies.