Behind the door of that strange lonely house you can see from your window, past the garden wall you hoped to climb before you were too old, under the bed where you kept all your monsters and all your dreams — there you might find a place called The Paracosmos.
There is the Timekeeper, who speaks in rhythm, and adorns himself in the ticking of clocks. His own watch, which he wears around his neck, sits open and mangled on his chest, for he is never done fixing it. He will never be convinced that it might not be a fraction of a moment more accurate.
There is the Centurion, who is the strongest of his procession. He is unfaltering and true, and still wears the golden cloak of the old world. He knows the rumble of the ancient tunes, and hums them to us from time to time. The deeper places of the earth cherish him, for he celebrates them; those times gone by.
There is the creature called Nickles the Cat, although it has been many years since he has been a cat. He left his kittenhood in the attic where he was born, and lept from the rooftops to watch the bards of St. Louis perform their singular magic. Though he now walks among us, and plays his own jazz, he has kept his feline tail, which you may spot if you catch him unawares.
And then there is I, your Master of Ceremonies. I cannot choose a name for myself, because I suppose that is not how names work. But I came from a far away place, and I read your books, and I learned your language, and my, how I love your songs.
My brothers and I – it was we who made this Paracosmos. You may think us odd, and we understand – we are indeed odd. But our door is always open to you, dear reader, that you might come through and share a tune with us, in that place that only you know.