Take What Is Offered And That Must

When A Man You Know To Be Of Sound Mind Tells You His Recently Deceased Mother Has Just Tried To Climb In His Bedroom Window And Eat Him, You Only Have Two Basic Options. You Can Smell His Breath, Take His Pulse And Check His Pupils To See If He's Ingested Anything Nasty, Or You Can Believe Him.

It Was The Single Forgiving Phrase In The Syntax Of Weaponry I Had Strapped About Me. The Rest Were Unequivocal Sentences Of Death.

Culture Is Like A Smog. To Live Within It, You Must Breathe Some Of It In And, Inevitably, Be Contaminated.

I've Been Accused Countless Times Of Writing Gloomy Futures. But To Me, The Texture Of My Sci-fi Just Feels Like An Extrapolation Of Current Trends.

Syndicate Is Technically The First Game I Worked On.