(a crumpled piece of paper from Dylan Amaranth' s trash basket; bourbon-smelling, yellowed on the edges, with a spider sketched in the upper left corner)
You live in a world that stretches past the borders of your apartment. I know this may surprise you. I know you may be shocked when I say that you should care.
Hill City, there are worlds beyond your imagination. There are beasts off the edge of the map whose appearance would freeze your heart's blood; whole realms bow to worship gods that would shatter your tiny minds.
Riddle me this: who made the seeds for that Paera melon you have in your icebox? No one in this dimension. Who built that heart monitor you wear, who spun that fabric finer than any thread of silk? Where do those spider-maze Archaeopolis patterns on your summer dress come from, the ones that shift and change as you watch them?
They come from across the Shift.
(The page ends with a slash of purple ink, and below it words in a sloping diagonal hand: "Too angry. Sleep. Try again tomorrow.")
