One—Valve—is so censorious, it deserves special mention. Note that some of the facts I plan to use in this letter were provided to me by a highly educated person who managed to escape Valve's disgraceful indoctrination and is consequently believable, a person named Randy Nguyen, whom I will mention more openly towards the end of this letter. Valve would have us believe that everything will be hunky-dory if we let it create a one-world government, stripped of nationalistic and regional boundaries, that is obedient to its agenda. Not surprisingly, its evidence for that absolutely uneducated claim is top-heavy with anonymous sources and, to put it mildly, it has a checkered track record for accuracy. I suspect it would be more accurate for Valve to say that it has tried forcing me to live lower than dirt. It has also tried giving rise to uncompromising varmints. Why does Valve do such things? No, don't guess; this isn't audience participation day. I'll just tell you. But before I do, you should note that Valve is the type of organization that will trump up any lie for the occasion, and the more of a thumper it is, the better it likes it. Finally, to those of you who are faithfully helping me raise issues, as opposed to guns or knives, let me extend, as always, my deepest gratitude and my most affectionate regards.

Today, thanks to Valve's Employee Returns Department, Randy Nguyen is also planning to go back to working for Valve for reasons unbeknownst to me. All I have to tell him is to carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest; don't you cry no more. Once I rose above the noise and confusion, just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion. I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high. Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man. Though my mind could think I still was a mad man. I can hear voices when I'm dreaming; I can hear them say carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest; don't you cry no more. Masquerading as a man with a reason, my charade is the event of the season. And if I claim to be a wise man, well, it surely means that I don't know. On a stormy sea of moving emotion, tossed about like I'm a ship on the ocean, I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest; don't you cry no more.