The chip smells like nothing, but tastes like a smörgåsbord that’s both confusing and arousing, like Steve Buscemi. Flecks of spring green – the kind generated from radioactive waste – coat the unwieldy triangles. The seasoning is a kaleidoscope of Day-Glo dust particles that perishes under saliva and tongue.

Theſe [trees] we ſhall divide into the Greater and more Ceduous, Fruticant and Shrubby; Feras and wild; or more Civiliz'd and domeſtique; …

… they could be seen as portents or prognostications, looking forward to some earthly catastrophe, or as precursors of the latter days, foresignals of the end of the world.

He greeted Milo jovially each time they met and, in an excess of contrite generosity, impulsively recommended Major Major for promotion.