Jumping bones

I was reminded recently of Dead Man's Bones. Apparently the record's out already. Will give it a listen once I get over the photo. To balance things out, the other guy is a complete uggo:

Fucking genetics.

She takes off her clothes, brushes her teeth, limbs wooden with exhaustion and vibrating with caffeine, turns off the lights, and crawls, literally, beneath the stiff silver spread on Damien's bed.
To curl fetal there, and briefly marvel, as the last wave crashes over her, at the perfect and now perfectly revealed extent of her present loneliness.

I've started reading Pattern Recognition and was surprised at how easily I slip into Gibson's prose. Brisk and concise, with sleek, cleanly executed flourishes. I find it strangely comforting - instant insulation in a perfectly accessible pocket universe.