"And so I learned the ways of other worlds, past the curtains most people do not even know exist. The worlds behind the mirrors, hidden in lost whispers or growing in the shadows"
THE NIGHT OF THE SEVENTEENTH FOG, ROLL IN, ROLL OUT.
The fog seeps in and in. It hangs in the air. The streetlights shine through, yellow stair cases to the sky. Slippery and fish-like, swimming back and forth, it is the truest of the night-time answers. Oh but that it were tangible, then we could dance on silver rails, all the way out... Out... Out into the open lands of infinity. Cloud castles, winking stars unhidden.
THE RED ORB OF UNKINDNESS RISES AGAIN, DISAPPOINTMENT FOLLOWS.
Halt the passage of time at each step. Its movement is too fast to capture, let it be examined through the lens of total cease. Watch as the ordinary and mundane, becomes unhollowed, revealed as what it is. Beauty. But still. Purpose remains. Let it be slowed, stopped, and left that way. Then as each aspect is categorized as beautiful or otherwise useless, let it start again and then slowed and stopped once it has sufficiently rearranged itself... Repeat.
BUT THAT ABSOLUTE PATIENCE COULD BE ACHIEVED.
It cannot. Let it be said that that was all that could be done. To be finding anything impatience must exist. Waiting does not provide all answers.
AND VENTURE INTO THE WILD LAND BEYOND, WITH ARMOR NATURALLY.
Man was not made to exist deep in the ocean depths. To explore such places clever machineries are built, and elite groups dive deeply to seek the mysterious dark underwater plains. Why then do we explore the "Backstage" without sufficient protection? All know that madness follows. Then why not build such a submersible to explore the truth? Devices surely could be crafted.
BRING ONLY THAT WHICH YOU NEED, WANT OR CAN THINK OF TO BRING, LIMIT OF TEN SUITCASES.
Impractically. It is the cornerstone of endeavors of any great nature. So that is where the lost things and one-time-use-only unrecyclable (only goes through one cycle) garbage that piles up will finally find its use. Or not. It is garbage after all.
TERROR BEYOND BELIEF!? THAT REQUIRES COUNSELING.
Talking through and examining issues can cause serious harm. Perhaps it is buried for a reason? Let it stay buried. Unbothersome. No-one is going to care anyway. The terrible wonderful things that happen, will always happen, thus they are ordinary, correct? It is all an illusion.
STOP READING, RIGHT NOW.
Why didn't you do as I asked? Boredom? Curiosity? Contrariness? A lack of notice? Well whatever it was, thank-you. My request was ill advised. Please, continue reading, you have done the right thing.
COLDNESS, LIKE THAT OF SNOW.
Swiftly melting particles of ice encase, trap and ensnare. Oh so pretty, the young ones chant. What does that even mean? Why is that more beautiful than, say, a rain of severed human ears? It isn't. But it must be. Purpose? Not present. But so strange it is. Why then, why then? This is so! Triumph! The world is not meaningless, it still has questions, vital questions, that need to be answered, or at least asked. Unanswerable maybe, but the questions in themselves are real! they shall provide the pathway to all things.
SO MUST IT GO, THE WAY OF THE CASSETTE PLAYER.
But fret not. It shall be replaced by newer, better, greater, shinier ideas, filled with an altogether smarter purpose. No, do not cry at its death, only rejoice at its pleasantry, though now gone. At least, perhaps, some small moments of yours have now been enhanced slightly. And that was the whole point after all.
La la la la. 
