the biologic of warren ellis

God, I sure wouldn't want to be Warren Ellis. Look at the kind of stuff that comes out of his head, I can only imagine what the rest locked up inside is like. Madness. Maniacal freaking genius madness. I love this guy.

Fuckit fuckit fuckit. The words lose their power, when they become a constant part of the urban soundtrack. The tat may be new, but the Fuckit Kid shows all the signs of having already tuned out the noise. Lavinia considers the boy. He's beautiful, in a crooked, dirty way. He's thin and wired and stupid and sniffs the air like an animal. It occurs to her that, on the days she'd forget to take her meds, he'd be attractive to her. The sort of boy she'd wipe her mouth on afterwards and toss back at the floor like a rag.

Sparrows skitter across the ground between them, playing ringtones.

She smiles, peels back her top to expose her belly. "Do you want to touch?" The words sound slow to her. She'd never realised, before she started experimenting with unmedicated urban experience, that everyone speaks slowly now. Sedated antishock drawl. He sniggers. Looks back at his crew, fuckiting off into the tangle of commuterhuman streams. Nervous now. Lavinia strokes her belly. "Come and feel it. It's weird."

Unmitigated futureprop of the worst kind, don't you want to live in his world?