As I roamed the murky, blustery undershelf of the PC gaming dark, snuffling through bright flashes and old command lines, little pinpricks of pixels making freckles over my skin, I heard a voice. The voice was Alice’s, and she called to me from her outpost by the tea-make in Stepney. All of a sudden my hand thirsted for a rein, the noise of the electric plains in my ears; I gazed into the ochre mesas and stacks drifting into the horizon, and with a six-string on my back I plunged through into Owen Deery’s Colt55 desert of frictionless gaze, to find a horse.
from Rock, Paper, Shotgun http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/RockPaperShotgun/~3/Td92eUqtKLQ/
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