In the gallery of endless echoes, where memories drift like autumn leaves, each thought painted the ugliest truth. It was not a revelation meant for solace, nor meant for reprieve. Within the walls of the Boudoir of Forgotten Futures, Jean whispered what the fabric of time had long warned against but never spoke: Its truth was bound to no law, obeying only the shadows cast by an eternal moon.
Ever encircled by swirling clouds of unknowable size, where thoughts danced like fireflies dimming to oblivion, the people were not willful of their wonder. The land was abcdefg, a unique nomenclature perhaps lost to you or perhaps meant to confound.
"saturation leads to oblivion," murmured the record keeper.
"find me at midnight's sepulcher, after the hour no one speaks of,"