Somebody takes his hands out of his pockets. Their eyes are going grim, sending out less light. All the hubbub has died down, the pregame babble and swirl, vendors working the jammed sidewalks waving scorecards and pennants and calling out in ancient singsong, scraggy men hustling buttons and caps, all dispersed now, gone to their roomlets in the beaten streets. They stand at the curb and watch without seeming to look, wearing the sourish air of corner hangabouts. They watch the late-arriving taxis from downtown and the brilliantined men stepping dapper to the windows, policy bankers and supper club swells and Broadway hotshots, high aura'd, picking lint off their mohair sleeves. They are waiting nervously for the ticket holders to clear the turnstiles, the last loose cluster of fans, the stragglers and loiterers. He has never done this before and he doesn't know any of the others and only two or three of them seem to know each other but they can't do this thing singly or in pairs so they have found one another by means of slidy looks that detect the fellow foolhard and here they stand, black kids and white kids up from the subways or off the local Harlem streets, lean shadows, bandidos, fifteen in all, and according to topical legend maybe four will get through for every one that's caught. He is the youngest, at fourteen, and you know he's flat broke by the edgy leaning look he hangs on his body. He stands at the curbstone with the others. The sky is low and gray, the roily gray of sliding surf. This is just a kid with a local yearning but he is part of an assembling crowd, anonymous thousands off the buses and trains, people in narrow columns tramping over the swing bridge above the river, and even if they are not a migration or a revolution, some vast shaking of the soul, they bring with them the body heat of a great city and their own small reveries and desperations, the unseen something that haunts the day-men in fedoras and sailors on shore leave, the stray tumble of their thoughts, going to a game. Longing on a large scale is what makes history. He wants to be here instead, standing in the shadow of this old rust-hulk of a structure, and it's hard to blame him-this metropolis of steel and concrete and flaky paint and cropped grass and enormous Chesterfield packs aslant on the scoreboards, a couple of cigarettes jutting from each. It's a school day, sure, but he's nowhere near the classroom.

To the memory of my mother and father PROLOGUE The Triumph Of Death He speaks in your voice, American, and there's a shine in his eye that's halfway hopeful. Images for refenece on the glitch I'm taking aboutĪlso I tried veryfing game files, first thing I did which is why I'm here.De Lillo, Don: Underworld Underworld Don DeLillo. I mean I could be totally wrong which is why I'm asking but I thought it would be worth mentioning all I can

Now I have BOTH the orignal and source so what I'm theorizing is I might have curropted the orignal via the source somehow. I do have a small theory but please correct me if I'm wrong but I during research I discovered that Half Life 1 is suppose to have randomized but this feature is broken in Half Life Source I have no modified or touched the games they just were like this. Most people suggested turning off Texture Flitering but trying to yeilded nothing So my Half life 1, Blue Shift and Opposing Force all have this recurring glitch where the textures change randomly whenever I move.

Unwrapped texture half life 1 gman