November goes on. The cavalcade of belles, brutes and barons that is Videogaming continues its push through the midnight forest. Spiderwebs wrap the axles of the gala coaches in which the optimates of Ubisoft, Microsoft and EA drink from lavender flutes, turning their bloodshot eyes from the QA staff powering their barrows through the ruck. The faces of the common developers are a moth-eaten ribbon of quiet striving and terrible hope. The guards form a torchlit embroidery. Every so often, a torch goes out, and the wych elms generate new fruits. The stones in the road cant against our strides. The skulls of live service games burst beneath our wheels, and the analysts in the pageant wagons moan that the future lies behind us now.
