“In my dream, I smell the barbecue. I hear children. A dog. I think I see someone. Someone I love.

These things are not for me. I move by roaring engines. Among warriors. We come from the night.”

Gawp. Yawp. Goggle. B.J. Blazkowicz does beat poetry. This can’t be Wolfenstein? But it is. … [visit site to read more]