There is, on the far northern edge of the Fractal Sea, a stretch of coast still marked by the number-perfect lines of bays and estuaries where the waters first drew their border, long ago when the world was young. And on this coast there is a lagoon, which is peaceful and still, good sailing in even the smallest rafts which hain sometimes string together upon which to fish. Stories say that it was not always so. Stories say many things.

The only story likely to catch the interest of the traveller is a simple one. Upon a slab of waveworn stone at the far eastern end of the water, there is a series of faint depressions that present themselves only to a keen sense of touch. On a few scarce days every year, when the six moons align their pull, the water rises just high enough to fill these markings evenly. Using the pale reflection of their light, these etchings can be read. It is said that they always read the same words, no matter the tongue or text of the traveller, but this is something one must see for oneself.

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place.

I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face,
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again.

Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us.

Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again.

May the judgement not be too heavy upon us.