The Street Has Its Own Use For

All The Speed He Took, All The Turns He'd Taken And The Corners He'd Cut In Night City, And Still He'd See The Matrix In His Sleep, Bright Lattices Of Logic Unfolding Across That Colorless Void.

It Was Hot, The Night We Burned Chrome.

Upon Arriving In The Capital-f Future, We Discover It, Invariably, To Be The Lower-case Now.

Tim Powers Is A Brilliant Writer.

Time Is Money, But Also Money Is Money.