The Hunting Grounds
In our teenage years we gathered in arenas and killed each other for hours in a trance-like state, being reborn after each death. These are the eternal hunting planes, dreamed by the minds of processors and graphics cards, in which our multimillenary predator instincts are released without remorse. I've returned to the same virtual space ten years older. Now it's silent, but otherwise unchanged: the same fiery sky, ochre walls, solid water and labyrinthine tunnels.
