You follow the edge of the vanishing road. Tall grass splinters and cracks as a net over motionless pools of infinity. It's a fen. You think it's a fen. You've never actually seen one before. You only really know about them because their unexpected prevalence in the early poems of Sylvia Plath.

You hear a low murmur ahead. It is a pleasant cacophony that would deny any presence of mass intention. Maybe a pair or two properly connect, but it a seccondary goal to passing time.

>Go towards the sound.