1 — *The Archivist*
The archivist had been walking through the terrain for many a day- once easy to track, and now the passage of time slipped through his mind. The sawdust he walked on was grave, irritating the soles of his bare feet, now slick with the heat of the daylight.
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He had learned many things about this strange place, not quite here nor there, memory nor dream, idea or reality. He had learned that during the time of daybreak, the rays from the golden suns were harsh enough to burn through his epidermal, and at night, the darkness brought with it a bighting cold which sawed at his bones, bleak and bitter. He had learned that the sawdust he walked on may not quite be sawdust at all, and there was no sign of life here- no trees, no plants, no comforting humming of birds or bats. He learned that the mist continued, no matter how far his legs would carry him {come on now, go further, faster- you are almost at the end just a little longer just a little faster-}. It was no use. This must be what it was like for Ferdinand Melligan, except here, there was nothing beyond the horizon. There was no sweet smell of the green island. Just the continuing expansion of a deep blue sea.
He had also learned that it was very likely that there were no people here, and it was very likely that he would never find any people here. The ache that had accompanied the realisation had been corroded, like most things do with time. Yet there would still be that familiar ache when he would catch himself voicing a sentiment, and realise that he was talking into emptiness.
Once an astute academic, a collector of the threads which weaved people together, and as a result made of memories- he realised with terrifying clarity that he was being disembodied. He was a ghost of the forgotten past, the space between the words he wrote in the journals in published. Most likely- he would fade, as most memories do. He would become nothing, but sallow dust and quiescent air.
