What if J.R.R. Tolkien wrote Sci-fi, on an English terrace after its bombing with hallucinatory weapons of mass deconstruction... A decade too late, his life fades, seven letters, once marking the last of his names, stand stranded on a piece o' steel beneath the lucid sky... The writer once known as the prophet-maker is nothing more than a memory, neither illustrious nor spectacular, for the denizens 'neath that hallucinatory psychosphere once called "AlbionA". She, three letters to mark both her species and her name, strides through marshes of memory, asphalts of obsession and highways full of solitude (a perfect companion if you might ask) cradling her memory operandum 'tween her fingertips, its lens being able to testify the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the psychosphere...
"In a place whence we regard Michael Moorcock as a conceptual liberator, {New Worlds} is a thing of reverence"
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