Here lie the grand speeches unmade, the Rousseau of Friday evenings, and whispered Nobel laureates of insignificant moments.
Why did the philosopher refuse to die? He couldn't manage an exit worthy of the existentialist entrance.
Rear your scandalous intent upon the world, prod at the empty sky, for here lies the forgotten manifesto of maybe.
Enter the Hall of Echoes"The cat sat on the mat," made headlines in an alternate dimension, becoming a paradigm of literary depravity. Read more about it below.