I know the color of the earth deep below its surface and hear the deep bellowing voices of the stones. Sometimes they speak to me in the darkness in those basal notes and tremors which keeps me awake. They tell me old histories, repeated to them by things long dead and buried, some of them now numbered amongst the stones and earth. I copied many of them onto pages, scraps pulled hastily from the floor in the dead of night, in which I later transcribed into a binded manuscipt, a long volume which I called the Book of Old Things.
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