The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.

Opening lines matter, and I’d forgotten how good Neuromancer‘s is. More than 20 years since I read it, almost 30 since it was written. Sheesh.

Clearing out the back of the kitchen cupboard tonight, my flatmate/landlord Patt Markin (not his real name) said: ‘This is like seeing my entire life in sachet form.’