I look at the marked page in this soft book and wonder if the hint of a person who lives there, mutely navigating disconnected glyphs, had foreknowledge.
Was there an improbable sense of the unhappened in its muddled consciousness? Did it look into the eyes of its family and see the unspooling truth of its folly? Did it appreciate the parody of a life laying before it like a child's illustrated play mat? Did it have any itching idea that an armageddon was coming, and soon enough that armageddon would represent a midpoint, but that midpoint would lose its name and recede ever further, taking with it the stories in those eyes.
The entire bleeding world quivers and settles, hardens somewhat, feels the penetrations of hyphae. Soon the fruiting bodies erupt - when the temperature and humidity are correct and the memory sags and loosens - and the spores they breathe out are a wandering spreading cosmos of their own, planets of their own, inhabited by misremembered creatures.