Thus, Alma lied. A poignant complaint, piercing wondersong, registering with her frail untaught soprano trembling tones in the uppermost treble-world.

His ultimate concern is with being and beings, with saying something about something and not with the someones who say it and hear it—and not even with the someones whose beings are in conflict about beings in their being.

[…] he was again tasting the sickly welter of melted ice cream on his plate.

It took a little more twisting, but as soon as he heard a tendon pop, he screamed his way to bitchdom.