By the time anybody finds this decrepit little corner of the world, and the few novelties that are scattered about it, the projects will have been long abandoned, and their creator vacated from the premise. As time continues forward, the works of others are either sanctified or left to gather dust. In this case, I would like to imagine my works the latter.
But I find comfort in the thought. It is, in its own special little way, a romantic notion of sorts; a meager collection that lives and thrives not on the tides of society, but through the whispers of those few who have chanced by these incomplete chronologies. They shall be the haunted house, the decrepit mansion, the abandoned graveyard, the myth that is known by few and shared with no one. In time I should hope that a soul may wander by and take notice of what little i have to leave behind. But if you, the intrepid wanderer, do happen to chance upon this sad little portion of the world, I ask that you keep the knowledge of its whereabouts  to yourself and to yourself alone. I wish to stay as i am, a whisper carried along the eaves of mankind's perception, noticed only by those who are willing to look hard enough.
So, with those niceties set aside, I welcome you to what I have left behind. May the story you find here be enough to warrant your time.