To Our Wayward Children,
There’s a village, but it’s vanishing as you read this. To save it will require a ritual, and we need you. Your quest is of cosmic complexity: hasten thither. We shall furnish you with a theory of place-time-memory, whisper which way to wander, and, if needed, pour artisanal drinks: moonshine, mushroom tinctures, chai, and tears of various kinds. Neither map nor compass shall guide you (apologies), therefore venture forth at hazard, by hunch — trust to luck. Feel the path in your gut: through the golden birch labyrinths, the infinite fields, mirages, hallucinations, glossolalias, and [redacted]. We’re certain you won’t fail us. You’re the only hope, for everyone else has either left or not yet arrived. No pressure, though. If you can’t make it, at least please laugh at the wake.
Beams of appreciation,
Tulubaika