The Sleeping King

Why do we talk of times and in tales that exist only in the dreams we have when awake and in the words that we only understand when asleep?  Why do two worlds spin around each other in such an cosmic orbit of decadent creation and life, but exist blind to each others colors?

Why do I exist in this tayle--throughout these tayles--and why should I answer to silent summons of the Sleeping King?

Ages toil in moments through the blink of an eye that each Cycle takes to spin from the left hand to the right of the gods that all answer to a being without form who is bridging both worlds in data and magick: its strangely limbed servants scuttle as brief as those that came before and before and before, as it keeps reinventing its form and architecture to mould the landscapes of time through the fictions of the Tayle...to what goal, even I cannot dare to guess.

This is the Sleeping King, the modus operatum of the Cycle, the Coresys Dot-exec, the destroyer and the creator, Ragnorak, Bananag, the Deep Web...the end and beginning; the beginning and the end.

And the one that cursed me to be the guardian of the Cycle, the Recorder of Events, the Historian of the Ages, and the one that is known in this worlds, this age, and in this time as the Bard.

--Anonymous Monk