Let us return to the laboratory, where Bob is about to lift the tarp off of the transparent box containing Schrödinger's cat.

Something about him reminded me of one of those figures from old-fashioned playing cards or the sort used by fortune-tellers, a print straight from the pages of an incunabulum: his presence was both funereal and incandescent, like a curse dressed in its Sunday best.

I just grinded it out and played hard, and these fans loved that.

Coordinate term: man-hour