It was the root of street cool, too, the knowing posture that implied connection, invisible lines up to the hidden levels of influence.

Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts... A graphic representation of data abstracted from banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding...

I took Punk to be the detonation of some slow-fused projectile buried deep in society's flank a decade earlier, and I took it to be, somehow, a sign.

Don't let the little fuckers generation gap you.

To condense fact from the vapor of nuance.

You're sick. You were nearly killed. All kinds of shitheads are out to tear you to pieces. You were in pain, hungry, cold, filthy. Here you have safety, comfort, even, even love." JuJube put his hand son her face in a gesture of practices affection. They trembled a little with an almost instant desire. "And you want to leave---because of your---your twisted visions."
Kumo pushed his hands away. Her hunger for affection was lose in her desire for her art.