This is, undoubtedly, the hierarchically superior discourse—the critics soon detected it—in the dense interdiscourse of a kind of images whose apparent realistic homoglossia transmits a rich and varied critical heterology.

“Shut up, dicksack! I'm in charge of the armory, you heard her!”

However, after a bit of experience, the collimating chore can become routine. […] Of course, if manufacturers made telescopes whose optics did not move around, you would only have to collimate a telescope once.

Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves, Farthings are made for Irish slaves; No brass for me, it must be gold, Or fifty pounds in silver told.