I can only protrude my wormlike tendrils of apology, craving forbearance on the grounds that a writer must write about what he knows, and since I know nothing about any subject it scarcely matters where I dabble.
“Three bikers in metallized boots and Mad Max leathers sat at the outdoor tables. They formed a feral presence in the hypermodern complex, like carrion-birds on a skyscraper cornice, filling an unplanned niche in the ecology of the future.”
J. G. Ballard | Super-Cannes