A man was curled on the street with his arms wrapped around his head. The 
nunchuks had been put away by this point, and hands were busy going through the 
innumerable pockets that were to be found in a gentleman's suit. At this point 
the cine went into slow-mo. A watch flashed and oscillated hypnotically at the 
end of its gold chain. A silver fountain pen glowed like an ascending rocket 
and vanished into the folds of someone's mite-proof raiment. And then out came 
something else, harder to resolve: larger, mostly dark, white around the edge. 
A book, perhaps.