It's far from his most celebrated work—although it should be far better known than it is, since it's (surprise surprise) brilliant—but even in the midst of the absurdist Bojeffries Saga, Alan Moore manages to tuck in some writing the likes of which I hope to someday come close to attaining:
"the evening was still, save for the faint whirring noises that the streetlamps made if you pressed your ear to them and the distant, poignant coughing of a consumptive housemartin."
"A consumptive housemartin." I mean, really. It's just unseemly.