Come, wanderer—
Step gently upon these creaking boards, where the air hums with the weight of 1357 x 920, a measured sigh in the dark. This realm does not bend to time, nor to reason. It simply is: a palace of fragmented tomorrows, its halls lined with mirrors that reflect only what might have been.
Turn back your heart now, if you still can.
You stand at the maw of the Lair of Scattered Prophecies, where destiny crumbles like ash between grasping fingers.
In the hour when the veil between what is and what could be grows thin—when even the moon hesitates in its ascent—she carved this dominion from the marrow of silence.
Mingo. Archivist of Elsewheres. Weaver of the Unwritten.
Its birthdate lingers like a phantom limb: October 23, 2020, a day that was and was not. The lair exhales in the flicker of half-dreamt epiphanies. Its dimensions are a formality; its true shape is the space between two thoughts.
This sanctum is her mind made manifest—a reliquary of radiant contradictions, its vaulted ceilings buckling under the weight of all she has loved and abandoned. Here, an idea is never merely an idea—it is a living current, slithering through the halls like a river of quicksilver and shadow. Memory is not recalled here—it rises from the gaps in the floorboards, whispering in tongues of rust and honey.
This place is her magnum opus, her quiet catastrophe. Every added verse is a surrender to the chaos; every faded stanza, a funeral for selves outgrown. And as she walks her spiraling path, the lair walks with her—an ouroboros of ink and instinct, its walls etched with the sigils of her metamorphosis.
