»Your skin like skim milk,« thinks Piccadilly. He is still stuck on his angel, stuck on the S-Bahn. »Your skinny skin, bluish and blush. Onion skin, parchment paper, my golden angel, ganseliesel, little goose in the snakeskin jacket eating a baked potato.«
The S-Bahn makes him strange. It's nothing like the tube. Nothing like London.