A screaming comes across the sky.
Some typewriters in Whitehall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little A4 could have ever hoped to.
Our history is an aggregate of last moments
Danger's over, Banana Breakfast is saved.
You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
There is no real direction here, neither lines of power nor cooperation. Decisions are never really made – at best they manage to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all around assholery.