In the Cathedral of Saint Decius there are many religious texts, but none so interesting as this. The Verses of Papyrus are much rarer than any Qu’ran or Bible or other book of religion in this vast, complex world we live in, but the words within are cherished by the sort of elite priests who like to keep to themselves in the far reaches of distant monasteries. It cannot be said whether these texts are mere fairy tales or some permutation of the true history of humanity, but this didn’t matter, for the only copy the heroes of our story would have encountered had been dropped out of Carla’s pocket onto the forest floor outside and lost. If you were to find this book, the open pages would have given you the following lost legends:
I can see now that my wife was right in saying that I am not fit to be President of these United States. The Lord has cursed me, that is to be sure, but I see myself with no choice but to continue in these offices. It would not be fit for me to resign as I have never been a man to shirk my duties. Still, most days I find myself lost and alone and then my only real choice is to soften my pains with whiskey.
You get off the bus and it’s still sorta cold out but not quite cold enough to snow, so you’re drenched in freezing rain. Let me tell you something: there is nothing worse than freezing rain. It reaches to your core and freezes that and then your body takes the rest of your nerves along for the ride. It makes you feel barren. Not even a living human being. You are a husk of ice.
Your history teacher was talking about the Holocaust when Jews and Socialists and Homosexuals were killed and she said that trauma is indescribable with regular words. The only way to know is to feel it yourself. So you know you’re cold, but you can never really tell somebody what it’s like.