An End Other Than Death (Prologue)
This place exists nowhere. It is a figment of my imagination and yet it is all too real. I tread the soft black ground beneath my gentle feet in the hopes of making real anything other than what I see–hallucinate, perhaps–or think.
I cannot remember my name. Perhaps it does not matter–not my name, but the fact that I cannot remember it. Fleeting images of a city clad in white find me like sweat-filled nightmares, but only barely. The white-clad city scares me and yet, it feels real. Visceral. Why am I so scared of it?
I cannot escape this place. I am doomed to tread the black loam forever, to fail to make sense of the things I see, the things to which I speak. Sometimes my mind whispers to me, tells me things I did not know–had no way of knowing. These things I see and hear feel so mundane, so ordinary, and yet when I think of that white-clad city, my body contorts like a million angry serpents writhing and twisting, constricting one another as a wave of anger and spiteful fear washes over me. I am too scared to try to think of the white-clad city again.
I do not know how to keep track of time. I cannot remember which things came first, or if I grow older. The sky here is alight with stars of purple and blue and orange, and the black loam is wet with fate. There is no need for time, here. Only the thirst of a gentle body for damp soil and dreams.
This expanse of black, wet loam expands before me. On it I meet people, sometimes, and see things, others. I will try to remember them.
I cannot escape this place.
I am doomed to wander this plane of loam and dreams until…
I cannot escape this place, and I cannot die.