Outside motors are roaring: but less like transport than like some kind of stationary machine, very low earthquake frequencies coming in mixed with the cold — somehow intimating that out there your blindness after this bright indoors, will be like a sudden blow. . . .

-T. Pynchon

Imagine a missile one hears approaching only after it explodes. The reversal! A piece of time neatly snipped out . . . a few feet of film run backwards . . . the blast of the rocket, fallen faster than sound — then growing out of it the roar of its own fall, catching up to what’s already death and burning . . . a ghost in the sky. . . .

-T. Pynchon

The silent room. The old man did not stir on the floor. The wind blew in the broken window. The air was cool.
“Congratulate me, Barton, this is my twenty-sixth birthday!”
“Congratulations!”

-R. Bradbury