It lays unbounded, spreading out to eternity. A hidden land, a subterranean world, from which springs the strange vigor which puts paint on all our hollow walls. Only the most bold may visit this place, and even those cannot stay long, for rationality disintegrates into the shrieking horror of it's darkness. Nietzsche delved too deep in his efforts to plumb the fantastical secrets of oblivion. Like Odin, after drawing from Mimir's well or, even later, after hanging from the gallows bough of Yggdrasil, the price of passage through the dark and silent earth is to burn within the black fire; nothing comes back the same.
It is easier to visit Avalon. That quiet metropolis, which dwells beneath the roiling seas, is still a difficult and unforgiving land, though it suffers not from the anti-matter impossibilities of the former space. In Avalon, the ways of the dark and silent earth can be understood, they can be known without invading and overcoming the minds of men. Avalon is a battleground, a convergence of angels and daemons, and those who manage to make their way back, who endeavor to return to these, the twisted lands of Dystopia, will do so with new-found insight and unrivaled freedom.
But better yet for Avalon to come to us. Like the Lady in the Lake, the lovely Vivian, rising from the waters, up from her dark home to deliver the palladium forged Caliburnis into unsuspecting hands, so can depth of mystic thought, like a bolt of lightning cutting through the night, arc from there to here, tempering rule of might with the reasonable suspicion that there is much more to the story than that which we can clearly see.
