After the thirteenth eschaton, the end of the universe tried to find some semblance of organisation. In rotating tesseracts of dark brown stone, in brushed copper, in beige sandstone blocks, the interwoven rings and cycles of Hy Blakoom, the cathedral city at the end of time. In a void of burnt orange, the vast helixes span into one another, the grind of their masonry silent in a universe without anything else other than this strange citadel. Parks could be seen glistening on some of the surfaces and vertices, a hadron collider of boroughs, forests, and urban sprawl. Children hopscotched. Labourers toiled. The sky held no secrets.
In the middle of the city - a term hard to address due to its non-Euclidean geometries, the centre as much the outside as within: as above so below - a statue of Mr. Tomorrow stood, with his dog Venivici, as a testament to he who saved these refugees of constant apocalypses. When every mythopoeia occupied the same space, so did all of their end-time legends, and only a few survived the entropic collapse of so many scenarios enfolding into one another. At the base of the statue is read THE WHEEL IS IN THE AUTUMN. Mr. Tomorrow had never figured out what this meant.
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