Once upon a time that never was, never would be, and hardly could be, there rested upon the collapsible foundation of spacetime a city riding the wake of a divine cosmic systole. It was as difficult to find as the underside of water, but I assure you, it was a beautiful place. Golden leaves blurred the trees that stood so boldly leaning against an upside-down sky. Bright, shimmering bodies of water ran throughout the land, each looking almost like the silver chord that keeps the dreamed tethered to the dreamer. And dotted on the land were a host of creatures, the most divine set of allegory, living out entire lives in each breath.

The landscape on a whole was merely a translucent projection from some unseen entity's dream. It was a paradise of gnosis. It was a utopia barely remembered by the collective, but longed for in every breath. It was just a dream, of course. He Who Dreamed, as we'd come to call him, must've found this place deep within and given it to us as a gift. We'd be the deferents and epicycles turning the wheels of his mechanical dreamworld. We would be the recorders of his holographic history.