Let's say we're walking toward that forgetting fog. Someone is emerging from it and approaching us. It's Novalis. How is this possible?
In this forest, we have fallen through time, and the year 1797 is damp in the air. We have forgotten the future. Novalis is sleepwalking as he moves along the leafy path. His dream is drifting toward us. It moves around and into us. Our own dream becomes older, more farfetched. We wish to hear of roses wilting and the loneliness of trees. Why did we come here? No one knows.
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