These posts would be best read if you unearthed them from an iron-bound chest in the corner of a garret on a silent afternoon. The room itself is full of dusty light and smells of aging things. It sits above a house long-lived-in and recently desolate... even vermin do not travel up this way that often anymore.
The medium of these posts is yellowing paper. Reading them is a tactile experience, as the bumps and ridges left from the gnashing type-writer still brush against one's fingers en passant.
Certain oddments are among the papers, many of whose meanings are difficult to discern. The natural thought is that they are illustrative of various details contained in the posts. There is a lock of hair, faded; a tiny book written in letters that might very well be Arabic, with an even tinier flower pressed between its pages; a heavy coin, of unknown metal, bearing the androgynous profile of some yesteryear tyrant. There is at the very bottom a dagger, honest-to-God, encrusted with semi-precious stones.
Some of these posts are dangerous; all of their authors are dead.
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