This place is a message… and part of a system of messages… pay attention to it!
Really, what more is this
place than a system of
messages? Bits of lives lived; scraps of
pseudo-paper shuffled up and sent spinning into the ether for the eyes of a hundred thousand strangers in the
future. Time made hard, stored to change synaptic bridges in brains not yet
born. This is our love letter to the ones that will never see us
live. This is our
epitaph.
Sending this message was important to us. We considered ourselves to be a powerful culture.
We brewed the wine of
hubris as much as any emperor or flea chewed nobleman long dead before us. Our hearts are judged by us to be the
pinnacles of creation, just as all hearts before ours were. Some day, we will be an
enigma to be puzzled over, the frame of reference
lost and unlogged. We tore at the world as though it lived the same life as us. We couldn't imagine an
infinity, or even an era. Tiny hundred year bites strained our jaws. We drank oceans in sips.
This place is not a place of honor…no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here… nothing valued is here.
Modesty is the one truth we considered. Not a penny earned, not a pound saved. No great truth within these thin walls. No
Rosetta for our age. The jewels of thought and craft and industry lay
elsewhere. The craftiest of our lot was no more than average, no noble blood or eternal truths within. This is a common
grave, made by common
men, for common
thoughts and common
dreams.
What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us. This message is a warning about danger.
Stimuli garner response. Equal force makes a shadow reaction. We lived in these days, these seconds, these years, spraying our
neutrons into the dark places, bombarded by each other. We wrote about our
hate. It is buried here.
The danger is in a particular location… it increases toward a center… the center of danger is here… of a particular size and shape, and below us.
Gravity pulls Everything to the
center. Down, below us we push this
catalog, into the past and forgotten, a shed
carapace. It is something we
did. Past tense. Buried. Dead. Eulogized. Forgotten. Lost.
Gone?
The danger is still present, in your time, as it was in ours.
You can't kill an
idea.
The danger is to the body, and it can kill.
Hearts are not hearty. They
break all the time.
The form of the danger is an emanation of energy.
lightning bolt.
bit packet.
bullet.
spear.
The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb this place physically. This place is best shunned and left uninhabited.
Go away.
Never come back.
We loved you.
Flee.