“Marinus blows out a mouthful of air. "Did close-range artillery knock any sense into you, or are we staying?”

“I find a certain comfort," confesses Marinus, "in humanity's helplessness.”

“Oh, aging is ruddy unbearable! The I's we were yearn to breathe the world's air again, but can they ever break out from these calcified cocoons?”

“Marinus is leaning on the railing. "Warehouse number six needs rebuilding; there's a big hole in the seawall behind the guild; Constable Kosugi shall probably"--from Seawall Lane comes an almighty sigh and crash--"shall certainly be lodging elsewhere tonight, and I pissed my thigh from fear. Our glorious flag, as you see, is unhurt. Half of their shots flew over us"--the doctor looks landward--"and caused damage ashore. Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, Auri sacra fames.”

“Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies, an' tho' a cloud's shape nor hue nor size don't stay the same, it's still a cloud an' so is a soul. Who can say where the cloud's blowed from or who the soul'll be 'morrow? Only Sonmi the east an' the west an' the compass an' the atlas, yay, only the atlas o' clouds.”

“Who was blowing on the nape of my neck.”

“Temple of the Rat King. Ark of the Soot God. Sphincter of Hades. Yes, King's Cross Station, where, according to Knuckle Sandwich, a blow job costs only five quid - any of the furthest-left three cubicles in the men's lavvy downstairs, twenty-four hours a day.”