Recently, Paradox descended upon San Francisco with fire and sword, and – in the process – trapped me inside an honest-to-goodness dungeon. Admittedly, it looked a lot like a quaint yet upscale bar/music venue, but I knew the score: each and every journalist there was tethered to a row of diabolical calculation machines, and the loudspeakers crushed our spirits by first blaring Iron Maiden – the music of revolution – and then quickly giving way to Bon Jovi. Eventually, with patience and planning, I escaped. But by then, six hours had passed, and I was a different man. While there, however, I composed a series of letters, unsure if I'd ever see the light of day again.
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