It's seven in the evening and the last bit of work for the day is done. There is a gathering chill in the air as I walk home from work. It is an unnatural cold, not induced by the weather. It is the cold of history - the chill of a thousand battles. I can hear the clang of the shields and the cry of a million widows. Despite the chill, a trickle of sweat runs down the harsh terrain of my cheek. The air is turning heavy and my footfalls feel like the heart beats of a palpitating giant. I walk through the last few metres of wool to reach my home. And to the window that would send me cartwheeling into a parellel universe.
Like Clark Kent heading into the phone booth; like Peter Parker rushing into the closet; like Bruce Wayne running to the basement - I clicked on the Launcher. The transformation is slow and painful. There are hellish voices in the air, almost indecipherable. But I can hear them say fell things. Whispers in the dark. "Rousillion will be a French province." "Spain is not the Emperor". "Inflation is bad." They torment me as I unmask my alter ego.
Suddenly, with a parting glimpse of Napolean Bonaparte, I am free. I am become. I am new. I am old. I am the world. I am time. I am the divine wind that wafts across centuries. I am the single player.
Like Clark Kent heading into the phone booth; like Peter Parker rushing into the closet; like Bruce Wayne running to the basement - I clicked on the Launcher. The transformation is slow and painful. There are hellish voices in the air, almost indecipherable. But I can hear them say fell things. Whispers in the dark. "Rousillion will be a French province." "Spain is not the Emperor". "Inflation is bad." They torment me as I unmask my alter ego.
Suddenly, with a parting glimpse of Napolean Bonaparte, I am free. I am become. I am new. I am old. I am the world. I am time. I am the divine wind that wafts across centuries. I am the single player.
