A cluster of red-litten ghostlights photographed hovering above the northeast face of Horsingdon Hill - moments before they are lost to the depths of space in a sudden, coruscating blur of movement, leaving only a spectral redshift haze in their wake.
Any attempt to elicit meaning from these intrusions into our world is to either court madness, or to provoke a transition into an inhuman mode of being as the only possible means of encompassing such knowledge. As a consequence, the good folk of Horsingdon prefer to let such things alone.
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