JWZ found what purports to be a lost draft of the Alien novelisation written by J. G. Ballard rather than Alan Dean Foster, from a script to have been shot by David Cronenberg instead of Ridley Scott.
As the ovipositor sought out and probed the hollow of her solar plexus, the cat’s hiss framed the moment, a Polaroid of the Hieros Gamos of the once and future predicates of sentience. Reaching out, Ripley, the Madonna of the New Flesh, stroked the elongated head of the creature, her fingerprints in the mucus tracing in an unknown alphabet the names of the children of the dead.
Awesome. Brilliant. But the Venn diagram illustrating the portion of the Heathen audience likely to get the joke is absurdly small.