"Loneliness can't be all that bad," I mutter to myself, as I pick up the yellow-bordered magazine, and wonder why that sounded so damned familiar. By Crom, would my life ever make sense? As I think that oath, I feel a brief spasm of horror--Crom was a false god who was stamped out ages ago. What god do I even worship? Well, I'd figure that out later.
The magazine was called Multiversal Geographic. A flash of memory breaks in from somewhere--it had been brought out by a giant slug called Rkkprat Mardack, and now embraced Dark Tower collapse denial, claiming the thinnies were nothing to be worried about. I see a photograph in its pages of a place that seems strangely familiar. Gradually, the room around me begins to fade and I find myself there. Where have I gone?
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