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Hard Rain

I dunno why but I find myself with an affectation for the kind of grimy urbana that was exemplified by an RPG called SLA Industries. Most people know the kind of setting, a huge city, spires stretching up into the cloudline, neon lights shining down upon the huddled masses. Constant rain, that's a big part of the setting. Non-functioning lights. Comfort being a desk with half a bottle of something cheap and strong in the bottom drawer. Oppression, nothing being what it seems anywhere you turn. Violence and agression and a hint of something under the surface.

I think that this is one of the reasons I want to go back once more to my Alternate 80's London setting. Rogue elementals, chaos magicians and ex-military psychics in an oppressive urban nightmare that nobody can wake up from. Grey concrete skyscrapers tipped with glass and steel, ringed with people too poor to eat and too scared to go back home. And rain. Lots and lots of fucking rain falling from a grey sky just like the grey street and the grey walls. Because it's fucking England under the Iron Bitch and if that doesn't justify vast amounts of rain every single day I don't know what does.

Excuse me. I appear to be frothing.

But you get the idea. I think it's a deep-seated unease with the world around me that does it. I come up with these alternated not just as an excuse to ignore the world as it is, but as a way of working things through in my head. And when things become grey and monotonous in the real life I go off to every single day I come back and I read a title like Strange Weather or Hard Rain or London's Burning and it just fires something in my brain. Revitalises me, pours energy into my nerves and down through the whole of me. I end up wanting to take a shitload of drugs and punch the world in the face for being like it is. These titles, especially in such grey moods, inspire mad action.

I don't know where I'm going with this, I must admit.

it's energy, a recurring urge to go out, kick the modern world in the face, move into a squat in Edinburgh and write vast amounts of things for no payment beyond food, bills, gadgets and a broadband link. One of those bits of my brain that refuses to listen when I realise that I'm in that hideously bland "real world" of jobs and savings accounts and friends referred to as couples. In a day, maybe two, I'll either spend the energy in some orgy of writing or of self-loathing and end up smoking and drinking to numb the urge to do something like it again.

I still don't know where this was going. But this feels like as good a place as any to stop.

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