“And has it not been wondrous?” The nomad asks, smile beaming.
“Not exactly, no. None of it makes any sense, it's all so random.”
The nomad laughs again. “That, tinkerer, is the beauty of it. If a thing has been imagined or dreamt, it is here. It's all here, sloshing about. All its marvellous glory.”
“Glory it maybe, but it's hard to find your way.”
“To move freely in the Weave, you must abandon linear thought and instead travel by association and juxtaposition. But above all else,” he warns darkly, “Beware the Lord of Doors.”
