They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture.
We are all in trouble…. with a bunch of dead people.
Plane-change maneuvers are expensive.
I apologize if my limbic system has misinterpreted your gesture of emotional support.
Magical?” “Non.” “Magnificent?” “Don’t be absurd.” “Less bleak than anything else we have seen?” “Now truly you are speaking French,” the ambassador said approvingly.
Who is going to fight them off, Randy?
The string goes taught and the tray slides into the tunnel and disappears.
War gives men good ignoring skills.
The old neighborhoods of Shanghai, Feedless or with overhead Feeds kludged in on bamboo stilts, seemed frighteningly inert, like an opium addict squatting in the middle of a frenetic downtown street, blowing a reed of sweet smoke out between his teeth, staring into some ancient dream that all the bustling pedestrians had banished to unfrequented parts of their minds.
These Burbclaves! These citystates!
So small, so insecure, that just about everything, like not mowing your
lawn, or playing your stereo too loud, becomes a national security issue.