William Gibson

     

     And then he was frozen, erect, fists right against his thighs, head black, his lips curled, shaking. While he watched the loser's zodiac of Freeside, the nightclub constellations of the hologram sky, shift, sliding fluid down the axis of darkness, to swarm like live things at the dead center of reality.


em Neuromancer, London: Gollanz, 2016, pp. 169-170.

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