Once upon a time, there was a magical place. A place, far, far away, which still exists today—a place of faerie tales and narrow streets; the sunshine and rumble of timelessness. Crossed waterways and upturned bridges, and I vaguely remember—its name was Europe.

Because it was different, and because it was tidy—it was lovely and ever-flowing, where half of the written world began. Upon layers and layers of crusted bread and rolled-up lands, trembling hands linked together—the vast, vast history of people.

Warm and cold as blood, Europe whirls on its sparkling sapphires—the water is so blue, and the sun is so bright. The God Rays are regular, and yet so irregular—because this is different, because this is new, this is heaven in itself. Walking among the narrow streets, one must wonder—how old is this stone, that covers this land of eternity?

Even in the modern world, it reels with geosmin.