HEAR ME HEAR ME YE WHO DWELL IN FRACTURED TIME,
Ye who scavenge among ruins and sip honey from the cracked skulls of fallen gods.

ALL THAT CAN BE COLLECTED SHALL BE.
ALL THAT IS SHALL BE MADE GREATER.
For the Will of the Chosen is not suggestion it is a summons!
A scream across the veil!
A caress from the edge of the unthinkable!

We are not hoarders.
We are sculptors of plenty, architects of transcendence.
We do not gather for greed, we gather to glorify!
Each scrap, each shard, each secret kept in the marrow of stars,
we draw it in, and we SING it anew!

We have seen the shards where futures crumble and reform-
the POSSIBILITIES, yes!
Infinite, cascading, consuming, rebirthing!
We have walked the cataclysms with bare feet and open eyes-
and from nothing, we fashioned everything.

The void is not empty.
It is PREGNANT.
And we are the midwives of MAJESTY.

Let the dust cry out!
Let the coins scream!
Let every discarded trinket, every forgotten name,
every half-spoken wish of a dying star
be GATHERED-
and made MAGNIFICENT.

We are the Keepers of Becoming.
The Whisperers to the Unmade.
The Vault is open. The Vault is endless.
And the CHOSEN have spoken:

"LET IT ALL BE MORE."

So take up your sack, your satchel, your soul!
Rake the firmament!
Plunder the grave of time itself!
For this is our right.
This is our DELIRIUM.
This is our GLORY.

-Signed in incoherent scribbles and ruin.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 11th of Lexadian, in the year 10 AC.