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In November 1978, I had six months earlier been honorably discharged from a three year stint in the Navy and was sentenced to 20 years hard labor in the Commonwealth of Virginia for Armed Robbery. Convicted in Newport News, about three weeks later, I was transferred “behind the walls” to Richmond, otherwise known as 500 Spring Street . “The walls” were aptly named as the prison was inside the city and the walls around the prison were easily a good thirty-forty feet high. You could not see out and you could not see in. It was a cold, miserable place. At the time there was no shrubbery or trees or any living plant life inside the living area. Everything else was red dirt, concrete, iron and brick. Years later grass was planted in some areas of the buildings and tufts of grass peppered the athletic field in erratic patterns and lent a little color to the palette. Your only sense of the outside world was to look up at the blue sky and see the white clouds as they scurried by.This is James P. Mitchell who was Warden of 500 Spring Street the day I arrived. He was a no foolin’ round kind of guy. This video gives you an excellent inside look at the prison after it was condemned and shut down. I see my old cell in Building Three on the top tier. Just seeing it again brought a sinking feeling and a spirit quenching moment.I was assigned to Cell Block 3 (Segregation), West side, third tier. I spent the first day checking in, getting my clothing, bedding and hygiene products. Meeting counselors and doing paperwork. At the time, this prison was the most secure, maximum security prison in Virginia and I had been sent there because I had an administrative hold (warrant) on me from the State of South Carolina for another Armed Robbery. In the history of the walls Black men were electrocuted for TOUCHING a White woman. A decidedly racist environment. Anyone with an admin hold was deemed high risk for escape and was treated with extreme caution, which meant leg irons and waist chains everywhere you went outside your cell. It was a soul crushing, physically debilitating experience. You couldn’t run, skip or dance a jig; but, shuffled around with your leg irons cutting into your Achilles tendon and rubbing your ankle bones raw. If you were a problem or had a smart attitude they had a tactic to put you in your place. A guard would walk up behind you as you passed by and kick one foot behind the other, causing you to trip. With no way to break your fall (with your hands shackled to your waist) an unexpected trip would result in a face plant and many black eyes and chipped or broken teeth. It was almost inevitably accompanied by an “Oops, watch your step” and laughter from the guard. There was no mercy for the convicted. Not all COs were pricks; but, enough of them to make your life miserable if they wanted to. You felt absolutely helpless. There are no witnesses to anything in prison. Shady CO’s perform their deeds in private. Lots of blind corners, empty rooms and hallways in a prison. I think in hiring the guards they had put an ad in the paper, “Sadists wanted.” You just had to bow your head, make yourself as invisible as possible and tough it out.Because I was awaiting transfer to SC for additional charges I was not placed in Gen Pop (general population); but, kept in the Ad Seg (Administrative Segregation) Unit on lock down. Lock down is staying in your cell 23 hours a day with one hour for a shower and exercise three times a week. Your world was a five by nine by eight feet concrete and steel box in a cavernous tomb like building built a hundred years ago. Everything was rusty and mildewed with black and green mold. The smell of urine and the mildew was stifling and within days you developed a hacking cough that produced a yellow slime from your lungs. During the Summer months the humidity and heat brought another stench, the smell of human funk. In the winter months we huddled under thread bare, scratchy wool blankets, our breath creating vapor trails as everyone wheezed with the flu which raged rampant in those close quarters. The lights never went out. The rats ran over the pipes and down the halls with impunity and cockroaches swarmed the cells, running over your face and body as you slept. It wasn’t unusual to wake up and find a cockroach perched at the corner of your mouth or eye looking for moisture. It was a 24 hour a day cacophony of doors clanging shut, locking levers and mechanisms being thrown in and out of battery, buzzers going off, loudspeaker announcements, whistles, COs barking orders, and shouting and screaming by other prisoners and guards. The crescendo of sound dropped to a dull roar between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m. Every four hours a siren wailed and it was count time. You were required during standing counts to be at the door of your cell to be counted (three standing counts and three in-place counts every day). You were housed with another inmate you hoped and prayed was a decent sensible person. I was lucky, my cellie was a guy named Mitch from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Like me, he was a young, early twenties fellow that was soft spoken, genuine and didn’t belong in this God awful place. We were both thankful for someone to lean on in this hellhole.The only saving grace of this situation is you were not put out in the general population with all the crazies with multiple life sentences and thousand year convicts who cared about nothing and no one. Violence erupted at the slightest provocation or pretext of “disrespect”. You minded your own business, did not speak to anyone you absolutely didn’t have to and avoided protracted eye contact unless you wanted a confrontation. As a new arrival most confrontations were a test to see if you could be “punked”. Any sign of weakness resulted in the predators converging on you to see what havoc they could wreak. With little else to do, the predatory sickos were obsessed with the weak and toyed with and tested them mercilessly, day after day. If you ever backed down or showed any sign of reluctance to fight back, your life was hell from then on out. To get your “cred” back, you had to at some point seriously hurt someone (shank or club someone) to get the crazies to back off. Daily life was something to be tolerated and ended each day with a prayer, thankful that you were one day closer to your release.A year later I was transferred to stand trial for my crimes in my home State of South Carolina. I was sent to the notorious CCI in Columbia. A crumbling, turn of the century dungeon that housed South Carolina’s death row and execution chamber. The conditions of this prison were horrendous, thus it’s name the “Prison from Hell.”https://www.thestate.com/news/local/article183488606.html Click on “Listen to this article” beneath the video.Thankfully once again, I was not placed in Gen Pop. Four more months of lockdown. By now I had been on lock down for over a year and a half [almost 13,140 hours 788,400 minutes]. It took about 120 days for my case to come to trial. I received an additional twenty years sentence to run concurrent (at the same time) as my Virginia sentence. When I returned to Virginia I was assigned to Powhatan Correctional Center (the State Farm) and was so thankful for being moved to Gen Pop and off lock down. Powhatan was another maximum security facility located on a sprawling farm next to the James River.Inmate labor worked the farm and provided food for the facility as well as many of the other correctional units nearby. Because of my concurrent sentence from South Carolina I received a detainer on my custody status and remained at the highest security classification my entire term of detention. About four years in, my appeal was successful and a determination was made that I had not used a gun in the commission of this crime as the victim had contended. The victim had falsely and maliciously claimed I had a gun when I did not. This was pre video surveillance and a camera smartphone in everybody’s hands. Seven witnesses and no one else had seen a gun. My charge was changed from Armed Robbery to Strong Arm Robbery and my sentence was reduced from twenty years to eleven. Elation and tears of joy swept my body, I felt like I had won the lottery. Routine set in. I worked at various jobs in the prison complex. I did piece work as a seamster making prison uniforms. After taking a welding course I worked in repairs and construction for the surrounding facilities. My most distasteful job was working on the “kill floor” at the prison abattoir. Just prior to slaughter, animals are walked up a raceway into the abattoir where they enter the stunning box. ... As soon as the animal is stunned, it is shackled by a hind leg and then the large blood vessels are severed to induce bleeding (a process known as 'sticking'). That was my job, the stunning and the sticking. I believe I was assigned that job out of spite by prison authorities, as my love of animals was well known. It was no secret I had a pet mouse and a pet cat in the institution. It was devastating to me and a mind numbing experience to be the taker of life on that scale. We processed tens of thousands of pigs and cows. All of whom were dispatched by my hands. Crazies kept their distance from me. After all, I was the only convict on the yard with a gun and a razor sharp ten inch knife that took a hundred lives every day. Every evening I would lay on my bunk, stare off into the distance and muse in disbelief about the enormity of it. Three days a week I tutored illiterate inmates, coaxing them towards their GED.Unless you were independently wealthy before being committed or have well to do people on the outside, most inmates have to find a hustle to pay for the little extras that make life bearable in a prison environment. I was amazed at the ingenuity displayed by some who were sixth grade educated. You must understand from the onset that things of this nature were an “us against them” exercise. Hustles were generally victimless, except maybe the State. It was survivalism and ingenuity at it’s finest. I judged no one for their hustle. I pointedly didn’t have anything to do with their hustles, because if they flop or more importantly get caught you don’t want to be blamed as somebody in the know. Inmates who worked the kitchen plied the food trade. A fat, hot, grilled, real eggs and real cheese sandwich could be had from 4a.m. to 8 pm 7 days a week. For the right money (three First Class stamps or 5 stamps for two sandwiches). They were also the source for someone wanting to make “mash or pruno” (alcohol) as they could get the necessary sugar and yeast. Some of the kitchen workers ran delis. You could arrive each day to a selected table in the dining room and have waiting fresh vegetables and fruits and high end protein foods. Things stolen from the guards kitchen or just not available to the rest of population. It all came at a cost or trade. Inmates who worked the laundry hustled dry cleaning and wash & iron services for the better heeled. Then there were the stores. You could borrow food stuffs and cosmetics usually one for two back on payday (some items like Ramen noodle soups were two for three back). Then you had the guys who ran the gambling and drugs. Some of the better educated and savvy ran legal services and institutional infraction advisories. Some who worked outside the fence specialized in bringing contraband into the institution. Then you had your armorers you could buy weapons from. If you could cut hair or do braiding or any other kind of specialty with hair, you were always in demand.My running partner and best friend was an Italian kid from Brooklyn, of course his name was Anthony and he went by Tony. We had a very specialized hustle. We could bring back through the visitation shakedown process (which involved stripping naked, raising your nut sack and spreading your buttocks and opening your mouth rolling your tongue around fingers through the hair) the contraband brought in through the visiting room. Most contraband brought to an institution was brought on visiting days by visitors. Visitors went through very strict pat down and some strip search routines if they were suspect of anything illicit; but, the right to visit, if you had done nothing wrong, was kind of a sacred right as people sometimes came great distances to visit. So however people were able to smuggle items into the visiting room was up to them. It was then the package was handed off to us and we made it disappear from the visiting room and reappear on the prison yard, for either a cut or a fee. We used this dodge at least a thousand times for the seven and a half years of my incarceration in Virginia and were never caught. Tony left first and when I left I sold the method for $2500. My personal hustle stemmed from that ability to bring in contraband. My visitors would bring me cigarettes. I would tell you how we did it; but, out of respect for whomever is still there, someone may still be using this hustle, so I cannot divulge our method. With the advent of tobacco being restricted from prisons, a cigarette was worth what dope was. During those years, with the price of a pack of cigarettes being what they were (1978 $0.36 1979 $0.40 1980 $0.45 1981 $0.49 1982 $0.60 1983 $0.63 1984 $0.72 1985 $0.78 1986 $0.85 1987 $0.94) you could get as much as a dollar (or equivalent) a cigarette. With a cost of two to five cents each and selling for a dollar, it was more profitable than cocaine or heroin. In addition it was a whole lot easier for a visitor to explain a pack of cigarettes on them than an ounce of dope and with tobacco not being per se illegal the worst they could do to me were institutional charges (not outside criminal court). With good time, work credits and education credits I maxed out that 11 year sentence in 7½ years and was returned to South Carolina.In South Carolina, with 7½ years under my belt and no detainer I quickly moved into “trustee” status and was housed at a minimum security housing unit, which meant dormitory style housing with more freedom but less privacy. Now I was close to home and had people who knew people, which definitely helped. The prison warden, “Ms. Rick”, was a member of a church my father had preached at when I was a boy. She was my guardian angel. It was good to be home. I was assigned a plum job as a driver to transport inmates from prison to prison and from remote camp units to prison hospitals and court appearances. My van was assigned a single guard who accompanied me everywhere I went. My assigned guard was a five foot, chubby Black woman I called “Mrs. G”. She was the best. Many times when we were on our way to or from an assignment she would tell me to pull into a McDonalds and she would treat me to a Big Mac, fries and a shake. She had a strict policy of foregoing fries to watch her hips; but, she ate TWO Big Macs. That little woman could put down some groceries. After eight years of incarceration, this was manna from heaven for me. Mrs. G mothered me and after a year of working together she even trusted me to go into malls unaccompanied and walk around and just look at everything. After so many years of institutionalization any exposure to public things was mesmerizing. She would give me a dollar, or two if it was payday, to buy a soda and a ice cream cone. As I said, she was the bomb.Many people have asked what a “day in the life” of being a prisoner is. I have to tell you it is different for every single person in that prison. Other than shared communal activities and meals, everyone and everything is a wild card. Everyone has their path to making this journey. That being said, a day in my life as an inmate had many variations. During the time I was in Ad-Seg was one set of circumstances. Then during the time I was in Gen Pop doing distasteful work another. Or when I was a trustee with considerable freedoms? They were all very different “days in the life” of a man behind bars.Reading was my escape. After all, books can take you anywhere, keep you floating on a cloud of imagination and be that one thing you look forward to with an otherwise fairly forlorn agenda. I read at least one every three days, so I would say I read about a thousand books over a 9 year period. I had a friend who signed me up and paid for 3–4 book clubs. I loaned out the newest novels for canteen. You may be surprised to know the most loaned out books had to do with the OJ Simpson crime, trial and after life. They were worth their weight in gold for earning value.I guess the most painful “day in the life” was while I was on Ad-Seg lockdown and not any given day, just the whole lockdown experience. Making a home out of a coffin-sized living space brought back memories of my Navy bunk on a guided-missile cruiser; but, without the camaraderie that makes it worthwhile. Your personal space gets real small. The monotony of nothing to do was ever present. I read a lot of books and found reading to be the escape I needed to breach those walls. Unless you were an early riser, a day started with the 7 am distribution of breakfast. A cup of coffee stretched with chicory flavoring. A biscuit with some yellow stuff in it (supposedly eggs - probably artificial - they were poured from a carton) and some fatback to chew on (extra biscuit one First Class letter stamp). 8 am was the first standing count of the day. After breakfast and count, we started a cleaning routine that involved scrubbing the entire cell down with toothbrushes and lye soap. Done daily it was probably overkill; but, it took up about two hours of every morning and made sense to us being in a constant state of lockdown and close living conditions. After cleanup, it was exercise time. Pushups, situps, resistance curls, squats, and jogging in place. We were pretty creative when it came to outfitting our personal gyms. Breaking a sweat was our objective and it took a good hour to achieve. Two thirty minute sessions because there was only enough floorspace for one person at a time. One exercised while the other provided the count. We had no watches or clock. After a good sweat and a brief birdbath, it was time for the 12 noon count and then lunch. Lunch was an orange, apple, or banana with a bologna and cheese sandwich and a carton of milk. Mustard packs were quite the commodity as the only thing that brought the bologna sandwich to life. Getting an extra sandwich cost one stamp (another stamp for an extra slice of bologna, one slice of cheese and two mustard packs – another stamp for extra fruit). From 8 am - 4 pm we were not allowed to be in or on our bunks. So we sat on the floor, leaned up in one corner or another, as we spent some quality time reading or snoozing. The afternoon was sprinkled with medical appointments and counseling sessions. After the 4 pm count, we could lay on our bunks again and 6 pm brought supper. A thin gruel of some kind of soup (saw a lot of onion, cubed carrots and kernel corn) and a fist-sized chunk of cornbread/or brown bread washed down with one eight-ounce cup of sweetened tea (extra cornbread/brown bread and tea – 1 stamp). 7-9 pm brought showers and one hour of exercise three times a week in a caged in twenty-five by twenty-five feet enclosure, open to an inky night sky above. This rec area was shared with the death row inmates. After returning to our cells, some letter writing and making entries into my personal journal kept things real and in perspective. More reading until I fell asleep. Wake up in the morning and do it all again. I spent 788,400 minutes on lockdown in Ad-Seg. Possibly some of the longest minutes of my life.A day in Gen Pop worked around the same counts as the rest of the institution. After 8 am count, work crews formed at the gates and inside workers got on their brooms and cleaning duties, or whatever their assigned tasks were. Your daily job was scheduled from 8-4 with a ten-minute break each hour. Bag lunches were distributed at noon and after another count eaten on the fly during breaks. The same fruit and sandwich (workers got two cartons of milk); but, for variety added SPAM and other cold cuts to the offerings. Just that little variety probably kept us from going nutso. You eat a baloney and cheese sandwich every day for five years and see if it doesn’t make YOU a little twitchy. From 4 pm count to 8 pm count was free time. You could go to the yard, run around the track, play cards in the common areas, watch TV, eat supper in the dining hall, workout at the weight pile, get a haircut, hang out at the [law] library, engage in any religious or educational objectives, take a shower, wash clothes, clean up and arrange your “house” or just sit in the sun, catch some rays and top off your Vitamin D. After an 8 pm standing count we could come out of our cells, into a common area, play cards, mix foods and talk until 10pm, after which we were locked in our cells for the night. Reading, drawing, writing, playing chess/checkers or cards whiled away the time until you fell asleep. At midnight and 4 am we were counted while we slept. Wake up the next morning and do it all again.My time as a trustee was probably the easiest time I served. Being a “AA –Driver” trustee meant I was on permanent “out count”. Which meant I was the responsibility of the assigned guard to my van and I didn’t have to be any particular place when the rest of the institution had standing counts. I could come and go out the gates of the institution to the vehicle pool whenever I wanted to. From 6 am to 8 pm I had free run to be almost anywhere in the institution inmates were allowed; but, for the most part, I was on the road, picking up and dropping off inmates at various institutions and work camps. Up at 6 am every morning by 6:30 I was out the gate cleaning, washing, and fueling up my van with a cup of real coffee in my hand from the guard’s shack. Depending on the schedule for the day Mrs. G and I were on the road by 7 am. Mrs. G’s daughter worked at a Dunkin Donuts so Mrs. G had an endless supply of DD coffee and brought a giant thermos full every day. She also had a hook up with the guard’s kitchen (her husband was a supervisor) and had them pack biscuits with real butter and real eggs and sausage and Smucker’s grape jelly. Mrs. G loved to eat. Giant flakey biscuits with butter, eggs, sausage and grape jelly, I could get five stamps apiece if I smuggled one back into the institution. The van was my kingdom. I drove, operated the two way radio with ten codes and times, reporting our progress to Central Communications, and delivering an ongoing count of how many inmates we had with us and where we were going next. I made sure we stayed on time and schedule, read the maps if necessary while Mrs. G watched the road for what we called “pirates” (civilians who would interfere with the operations of the van or try to pull off an escape of an inmate) and kept an eye on the prisoners we had on board. A two feet long mirror above her head gave her a bird’s eye view of everything/everyone in the van; but, she hated it because it also showed the bald spot on the top of her head. In the year and a half I drove vans, we never had any escape attempts; but, we did have one incident.We were headed to Columbia, SC with a van load of prisoners from outlying camps headed to the main prison hospital for medical appointments. I noted Mrs. G had been quiet for about 30 minutes. I looked over and saw her with eyes closed taking what looked like a brief siesta. This was highly unusual with prisoners in the back. About five minutes later Mrs. G’s coffee cup slipped out of her hand and crashed to the floor. I looked again and saw her head lolled to the side and her eyes were rolled up into their sockets. We were still an hour from our destination at the prison hospital. It was absolutely forbidden to stop the van anywhere with prisoners on board, except inside an institution’s gates. I didn’t care, this was Mrs. G. I drove until I saw the next blue “H” sign at an off ramp, designating a hospital at this exit. Driving like a bat out of hell, I pulled into the Emergency Room entrance, jumped out and ran inside to summon help. Mrs. G was a diabetic and had a blood sugar event which had lead to a heart attack. I called in the emergency and explained the situation to Central Communications and while we sat waiting I regaled the ten prisoners in the back about how we would all be getting time cuts for this. I wasn’t sure about that; but, I was mainly concerned with trying to keep an escape from occurring compounding my decision to stop. In about an hour, prison authorities arrived without incident from the nearest prison facility. The doctor said in fifteen minutes it would have been too late. Mrs. G was out for sixty days; but, when she came back we were as thick as thieves and I was her adopted son. Instead of being reprimanded and punished for breaking protocol, they cut five years off my sentence.June 1986, I went before the parole board for the first time and was denied, which was not uncommon. No one made first parole unless they paid some powerful lawyer a God awful amount of money. June of 1987, after nine years of incarceration, I again went before the parole board and was released on parole. In August of 1987, I started college and completed a four year degree in three years. Graduating in 1990, I received a BS in Business Admin. and Computer Science from Erskine College and never looked back. Within that three years I also paid off the Court ordered restitution to my victims and shortly after graduation, maxed out my 15 year sentence with 12 on a 15 (because I had paid off my restitution I forewent the customary period of probation after parole - I was a free man). I worked for Lucent Technologies in Atlanta for the ten years (1996–2006) of its existence as an IT Manager. Working on an MS in Criminal Justice from Purdue. Went to Piedmont Technical College and got an AS in Machine Tool Technology/CNC programming. I intermittently worked for JACOBS engineering for years as a precision millwright doing turbine and motor alignments making $125,000/year. Between stints with JACOBS I took short term contract work overseas as a translator for our American troops and various NGOs in Afghanistan. After thirty-five years I received a full pardon from both South Carolina and the Commonwealth of Virginia. I became a notary public, an ordained minister, got my Concealed Weapons Permit from South Carolina and an FFL from The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives' (ATF) Federal Firearms Licensing Center (FFLC) [currently seeking SOT]. I now own my house, vehicles, a lake property and a boat free and clear and with 7 grandchildren have had a very fulfilling life. It was all because of the kindness of the people from my hometown and church who were willing to give me a second chance. My special thanks to Lee and Eleanor, Bill and Emilie, Jim and Sandra. They were with me, in a supportive role, every step of the way.

I have a gaming PC and a PS4 Pro, and I have explored this subject somewhat extensively. There have been a lot of games I bought for the PC that are also on the PS4, and I have bought many of them thinking I could play them on my PS4 also, and it would be great.This comes down to just how beefy your PC is. My old setup, which was an i5–8400 with a 1060 3GB, would have been easily out-done by my PS4. My current setup, same CPU with a 1080 8GB, my PS4 comes in last like it has two broken legs and is out of breath. Some games fare better than others, although the ones that do best on the PS4 simply never had really high system requirements on the PC in the first place.There’s a simple reason why most games do, and must work better on PCs. PC game makers coordinate with video card producers. Ubisoft knows that xyz people are going to buy a 1080 or RTX card, and they make sure to put features in their PC games that your beefy video card can take advantage of. These games sell video cards, and the video cards help sell games. For instance: I paid right around $500 for my video card alone, whereas I only paid $399 for my PS4 Pro. My video card damn well better work better than my PS4 if I throw the right games at it.I double-dip far more than I should, and my friends mock me for it, so here’s a list:No Man’s Sky. On my PC I play this on ultra settings, 1080p, 60 FPS. I literally have every setting maxed out, and as we all know - NMS is a resource hog. It also is hella beautiful if you can max everything. When I say all settings I mean ground clutter, tessaletion, full AA, etc. With a few exceptions, it runs at 60 FPS without any stutters or issues. On the PS4 it is 4K, sure, but it runs at 30 FPS in 4K mode. You can immediately tell the difference. The only way to run No Man’s Sky at 60 FPS on a PS4 pro is to run it at 1080p (force the console to use a lower resolution). Super smooth 60 FPS, at the cost of resolution. Okay, so let’s say I’m okay with 30 FPS at 4K. There’s a lot of other settings that have been dialed down for it to work. Ground clutter isn’t as dense as my PC. AA settings are a bit diminished. Long story short: They turn down a lot of features to more of a “high” PC setting to make it work on the PS4.Fallout 4. You’re going to see a theme here. Ultra settings, 1080p, 60 FPS on PC. I think it still has 60 FPS on the PS4 Pro, and it does benefit from higher resolution, but again we get the same issue as No Man’s Sky. The camera rotation is not as fluid. The settings are turned way down. The color palette doesn’t look quite right. Fallout 4 was actually a big disappointment for me when I got it on the PS4. Huge performance hit to the game versus what my PC does with it.Diablo 3. Okay, so this one is one of the few exceptions on my list. Diablo 3 is beautiful on the PS4. Try as I might, I could not find any disadvantage to D3 on the PS4 graphically speaking. The controls are pretty awesome, too. Diablo 3 is a 7-year-old game, though, and hardly ranks in as a next gen title by today’s standards. That being said, Diablo 3 is really beautiful on the PS4 Pro.Skyrim. Another game on the same engine as Fallout 4, so I think you know the answer here. Skyrim does fare better than Fallout 4, but mostly because it’s an older game. Even Skyrim SE isn’t as demanding as most modern AAA titles. It’s nice, though, and for sure superior to vanilla PS3/Xbox 360 Skyrim by several magnitude. Still runs a hell of a lot better on my PC. Much better than Fallout 4 on the PS4, though.The Division. I don’t know how Ubisoft got this one right, but they did. I can hardly tell the difference between my PC install of Division, and my PS4 install. If I had to say, I guess it would be in the decals and water details? I haven’t done the same comparison with Division 2 yet, though, so I can’t speak for that game on both platforms.Ghost Recon: Wildlands. Not as nice a comparison as Division, but it’s pretty damn good. Wildlands really wins on the PC with ground details, and draw distance. Particularly when you’re up in the air in a helicopter or plane. Better colors on the PC. Better camera. It’s still a beautiful game on the PS4, though, and Bethesda didn’t make it, so it isn’t crap optimization.Assassin’s Creed Odyssey. A lot like Wildlands as performance goes on both platforms. You can really notice a lag in camera movement on this one. Still very nice, but the PS4 Pro version can’t compete with all the details the PC version can pack in.I’m actually installing Final Fantasy XV on my PS4 Pro as we speak (they had a great sale on the Playstation Store this week) and I am going to call it now: It will be 4K, and it will be beautiful, but there’s no way in hell it will beat what I can do on my PC. When they made the Windows Edition of Final Fantasy XV, they didn’t just port it over. They made a new version for the PC itself. I don’t know why they can’t do this to old Final Fantasy ports, which are insanely bad ports of a port of a mobile game… but I digress.I love my PS4 and PC almost equally, so I am by no means a PS4 hater. I love the simplicity of playing PS4 games. I grew up on consoles, so it’s like a familiar sweater. That said, consoles will never reach or exceed high-end PC performance. It could be done, but they would have to at least double the price of the console, and then the entire console market would crash and burn.

Just writing / please excuse bad writing style in english and grammatical mistakes“ SO NOT IN MOMENT BUT YES I HAVE TRIED” please make your own judgement.Yes, I am lucky to change lives and had been doing for last 38 years.i owe it to my mentors, family, mother, friends and people who like me or don’t like me.It all started in grade 5 or 6 when I was very young, may be 9 or 10 years old.1978, we were poor but somehow my mom got me addmission in OLF the only convent school in our town Aligarh, India. Only super rich or rich students use to study there, so I was a oddman out. Like an outcast where some nice rich kids use to share their food with me. It was fun as I was always treated badly by some teachers. Anything missing in class I was the easy blame but I never understood that part. So I was made to stand outside class and I LOVED IT. So that situation made me kind of nice to other poor kids. To cut big story short, i use to go on Tonga but sometimes when I missed it, i will go on cycle. My cycle’s chain would come down regularly, so one day it happened that I missed my Tonga, (Tonga Uncle was also happen to be normal human. He will not wait for me as my parents paid him slightly less then rich kids parents…ha haha )and so I happen to go on my lovely old cycle. As usual I had a issue with my cycle and one poor kid on my way to school helped me. But I saw that he had big wound on his leg and I took him to hospital and helped him with his bandage and this continued for weeks before he got fully cured. It was the greatest satisfaction of my life.1979. A eye care organisation came to collect some funds in our school and I started working for them, I was so passionate to collect funds and I happened to collect Rs 300 for them. My collection was for 25 piasa or 50 paisa , 1/4th or 1/2 of Rs 1. I never realised my achievement till I was called on stage for collecting biggest sum in whole state. The richest kid in our school collected Rs 75, which came Rs 20, 20, 25, Rs 10 all from his family members. While I had collected from at least 700 people. The director was overwhelmed to see a thin looking / poor kid has done this job…wow.. I became more passionate about these things. for few days the rich beautiful senior girl became my mentor. Her father was richest man in town, she will come to my instant rescue if I was being bullied. I as made to stood for school house elections and got highest votes and was made House captain for junior section. I had no idea what was it. But I remember a class fellow asked me to come to her house and insisted her parents to get me new dress and shoes…wow . I became one of them by looks. Honestly I was already rich by many ideas.So all these years I had been lucky to always offer food to any poor person if I am eating in any restaurant any where. this is going for years. Sometimes It is fun to see people getting confused but then that is not my intention but it do happen. It has been always fun and love which I get back from people, They have taught me so much. I have dropped many people home if i found them stranded. I always give lift.1985 to till date, I had worked and taken medical supplies to many natural calamities in India. Utarkashi earth quake, Bhuj and many other places ….have pages to fill in. At Bhuj I dealt with Current PM of India. He is one of the best leaders I have ever seen…any way let us go ahead.1991, I started working in hospitals in Aligarh helping people with small things.1993, came out with first blood group of India, it had 10000 names addresses and blood group of people willing to donate.Late 1994, started first free ambulance service in my hometown.1988 to 1992 had fought few human right cases in HC and SC…1982 to till date, had never left a accident victim on road and may be have taken 100+ people to hospital. In 1988 was jailed for 2 days in Delhi for taking an accident victim to AIIMs.Had worked with Lymphoma welfare society in AIIMS…JUST HELPING PEOPLE.Each interaction is live changing story for me because when you cooperate with some one your own life changes for ever.Fast forward in 2011 lost my younger brother in helicopter crash, have seen many tragedies in life. Each ripple of life has turned me in a better human. my facebook page Yogesh Bhatia and website will give more idea on my WORK http://work…www.friendsforcause.org and thats what I do now…I now live in Canada and and believe in mutual respect and love for everybody and cooperating with people without any differentiation or judgment.if you wish u can like facebook page Friends For CauseThese are from my gone for ever brother’s facebook page “ Nitin Bhatia Trust”a. This project was started in memory of my young brother and the day was his funeral day. It is was not a day in lifetime but lifetime on that day. Everything that has beginning has an end but then some tragedies start a new journey. These Gift Of Sight Project is that new journey which is like my own brother my own kid, with whom I live and now growing old....I thank all friends who have trusted me their contribution to make these projects more meaningful and life changing. Thank you for joining this great journey.b. Please join us for this Lunch. The concept which started in depression and on the funeral day of younger brother Nitin Bhatia has become a passion and very big. I am trying to get more and more people involved with just one single goal in mind, " How can I get more cataract surgeries done for Marginalized and people living on street." One surgery changes their life and it helps them to come back in mainstream society. MANY OF THESE PEOPLE STOP BEGGING and have gone back to their normal work. 100% funds collected go to the http://cause.My 3 sisters, brother-in-law, nieces, nephews contribute to the cause. I started it alone and now support comes from friends of friends and various un-known and anonymous donors. Today a very prominent businessman of BC has agreed to join us. HE IS GOING TO BE GUEST OF HONOR during Sunday Lunch. If more people like Brother Bruce join us then trust me we will able to fulfill a very BIG DREAM OF SOMETHING REALLY INNOVATIVE For my Indian Projects...WATCH OUT for that idea..c. This I wrote this Sep 25th It is my kid brother's birthday. Aligarh, 1974, 2.30 pm, I just arrived from school and was tired as usual. We were not so rich and use to live in one room small rented house in masoodabad at Aligarh. I was one of the two kids in our neighbourhood who was studying in Our lady fatima school. Only rich people kids use to study in that school.IT was my mother's dream to get me admitted to that school. i was student of grade 5th or 6th at that time. As i got down of the tonga (we use to go on tonga, as that was the cheapest mode of transport.), I met somebody from our neighbourhood and he shouted at me, Yogi aaj tu maza aa gaya ...oye munna tera chota bhai aaya hey. I did not understood and only realised that a new born baby has arrived in our house. It is such a pleasurable time to see a doll like kid in your house. The kids skin was the smoothest texture, so pale that it was transparent. I could see the blue veins that ran down his arms, and they made him seem fragile. The FRAGILE, OH THIS WORD. .....and years passed by and now Nitin had grown. He was in grade 2nd when Pitaji allowed him to come with me to school on cycle. The only problem was that now my daddy had a secret agent who will report on my every activities. But still we were great buddies. For 6 years, till Nitin got his own cycle, he will come with me. It was such a fun. I still remember those days. .....And few years fast forward. 21st April 2011...I had been sleeping when we got the call from India. my wife woke me up, and Deepi told me that Nitin's helicopter is missing, I knew that very moment I had lost that doll like Kid of 1974...and now there will be no one to report on me. why it is so fast folks...honestly it had been been only few days. Here he comes in this world and here he says good bye to us. Nitin died in 2011 in a helicopter crash, with him died my desire to get old together. He was like a kid to me, a son and younger brother. And now I understood why was he was so fragile in 1974....“People die all the time. Life is a lot more fragile than we think. So you should treat others in a way that leaves no regrets. Fairly, and if possible, sincerely. It's too easy not to make the effort, then weep and wring your hands after the person dies.” Today we remember and every day I remember. Because in his death we started these projects...so you know Guys life is short, so be happy and do what ever you can do.Till now 500 lives changed for ever and I will gone to India for my 2016 Project.I met my wife during my social work…she is 10 years younger to me and my biggest fan…she belongs to a rich family but very simple and totally devoted and is always cooperating in my projects.I am currently developing one of the world biggest project for India for Blindness removal and will be presenting to PM of India in 2017. I am also planning to meet Bill gates in 2017 to get funding for this project…Disclosure: I have not been invited but both will …no worries. Who cares life is short.