Sunset painted the verdant landscape of The Shadowlands in brilliant hues of crimson and orange, casting long shadows over the lush undergrowth. The vibrant wildlife had begun to settle down for the day, their calls fading into the serene whisper of the breeze.
(Picnic, Lightning): Who will step into the light?
Sixth and final passage (All regrets – suspicious vegetation – a blessing of chestnuts – sleep – midpoint ossuary – necks all wrung – a madman’s holiday – confession – dividends of blood – the song – strange kin – Nothingness – waiting)
I tell this story for I know not what. No chance it will be read, I am sure of that. Ah, but Picnic, you may say, perhaps someday our ancestors will find these journals and perhaps they will read them and perhaps perhaps perhaps