While angels dance on pins, I watch.
Ice crystals bursting into flame, sound cutting into flesh, trace elements of memory wisp through foreign atmospheres.
I stumble through the Unwritten Zones, taking a note here, a sample there, weaving them into a tapestry on the frailest of looms: perception.
Who can tell how much time is spent in Limbo? How does one measure the void? Why do all entities end up here so many times? Where does this nothing lead? What do you do to get here? Is there any way out?
In a void, could even an outside question exist?
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