On a matter of names.

On a matter of names.


The imperial city, believing itself to be the center of a flat world, has no need for compasses or regular street grids.
Born at the crossroads of national myth and natural earth, it lurches in all directions like a lethargic lion, answering only to the orders of the sun (from which it derives its sense of time) and the promise of fresh prey from afar (from which it derives its sense of space).
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