The great chronicle of lost chronicles begins...
Once upon a time, in a land that was never lost but always forgotten, the narratives of power and pathos were inscribed upon the dusty skins of ancient tablets. These were not the tales of heroes, as you might expect, but rather the laborious accounts of bureaucracy. In these pages, long since erased, lay the records of a great paperclip inventory, an unsung saga of stapler shortages and the heroic efforts to maintain order against the chaos of misplaced receipts.
Historians, with their tweed jackets and coffee-stained books, often ponder the significance of these vanished chronicles. Why do they ask, clenching their pipe in thought, were these records destroyed? The answer is simple: they were too mundane to be remembered, too trivial to escape the whims of time. Ironically, their destruction was the catalyst for the perpetual cycle of erasure and remembrance - a palimpsest of the mundane.
But fret not, dear reader, for in this tale of forgotten histories, there exists a strange beauty. A beauty in the absence, in the gaps where erasure has left its mark. It is in these voids that new narratives are born, paradoxically crafted from the ashes of the erased.
Consider this a love letter to the forgotten, to the histories that never were but always should have been. A satire of time itself, which fluxes and flows, erasing and re-inscribing, in a dance as old as history.