How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.
William FaulknerEverything in Los Angeles is too large, too loud and usually banal in conceptโฆ The plastic asshole of the world.
William Faulkner