I heard there was a secret world where the most incredible story ever written took place, a time so far away that it doesn’t feel real anymore. But you will never access that world. You will never hear that story. You will be left with a nameless, unspeakable feeling: a future nostalgia born from the awareness that you could have been part of something spectacular, and yet you didn’t get in. You didn’t make it. And that feeling won’t fade. It will grow, by the seconds, by the centuries: you will spend the rest of your mortal lives looking for that world — and in some moments, in the flickering heat of a desert highway, at the twelfth chime of a faraway bell, you will feel it. You will witness it so close, so tangible that you could grab it, and finally tear that veil that makes it other, makes it foreign.

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That other world will live in glimpses, in glitches, in coincidences. And yet, even when this parallel, monstrous world caresses ours, you still won’t be able to cross, to fuse, to merge — and you will walk away, you will turn your head with a tacit understanding: that you uncovered something huge, and yet, with no proof, with no credibility, you will be destined to almost know and not do anything, like a timeless Cassandra.

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But it won’t matter. Those coincidences will stay with you, like the tiny points of a cosmic map, much bigger than a single world. A map that will be forever strange, forever unknown — a moment apart, a meter away. You will live and you will die knowing that you access only a minuscule portion of reality. That all the rest is negated, forbidden, gone.

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Unless you find a door.