The tale which I am about to tell is neither a sorrowful one nor an overly enthusiastic one, full of joy and fun and terminally disconnected from that elusive mistress we call reality. An overly sorrowful tragedy shares this disconnect, devoid of humor, even if it's a cynical kind of humor.
So, this tale lies somewhere in the middle. The author, some forgotten hermit with delusions of truth and meaning no doubt, strove to find a middle ground, strove not to be bound by the excesses of human story telling, while, ironically, trying to tell a story. Perhaps it is this irony, this contradiction - some absurd perturbation - which is necessary for the endeavor which the author undertook. The human mind is incomplete! He decided in a fevered moment of absolute clarity. The story is never finished; what's more, when the story is deemed to be finished, that is when it is most incomplete.
And so the author set out on a journey of sorts, a kind of musing through the written word. He wanted to see what would happen. Twinned with a notion that this was achievable, he set out to write the story to end all stories. And you, dear reader, have been brought here due to a similar drive, a similar need to tell, to describe, accurately and completely, all that you have seen.
This book, with it's pages in whatever condition they present themselves, is the culmination of our authors journey to find a truth that he knew wasn't there.
I hope that I have thus far warned those readers off who don't wish to continue, who are scared at these possibilities, too many to count, and frightfully so. But to those who remain, I say this: this tale is not for the faint hearted, and it was never meant to be.
You have been warned …