The rising curve on the chart is plotted upon a smattering of tissue.
Debris performs new tricks by the roadside.
Repeated blows, concussions, jerks.
Strain, torsion, tension.
You pay for your ticket, you crystallize, you break.
The numbered dead yawn and die as quickly as possible, faster than anyone imagined.
The manuscript was a sort of packet, easily retrievable from the wreckage,
and the author was soon to inscribe an industrial goodbye to the apparatus of wood.
Fingers on the switches, he charts a dream of overwork.
A false theory needs to be debated.
A boiler needs to explode.
An uncomposed symphony of screeches destroys all material, particularly the wheels and axles.