Dear Eleonore, I write to you now, that the times are uncertain. Don't worry - I'm well kept and well paid, it's something else that this is about, let me explain.

A circus has come to our town, promising merriment and rest, I was quite excited and relieved. I've looked at performers and freaks, good times. The day has ended happily and I was content.

The next day, trouble began. That morning, Descartes has visited a fae fortune teller (remember him? He's that nutty architect that stays in his archives for whole weeks). Why would he of all people go there? One of his underlings was there the day before and was told by her, that she has a message directly for Descartes's ears. He, being a curious man, went there before sunrise. Though I was told, his attitude was rather derisive at first, he's left the tent schocked. He said absolutely nothing, just went to his archives, absorbed in thought like never before.

Most of the day then went as always, only rummors and slight ridicule were spreading around. But all became terrifyingly clear once Descartes decided to speak to us directly.

"We won't be building the palace gardens anymore" he said, devoid of any feeling. "Now, we'll be building this machine I've designed, and we have only a few days to finish it. If we don't, the world will collapse, and you'll all die."

At first most didn't believe him, we've assumed he's gone completely unhinged.

"Ah, I see" he said sourly, then raised his hand. "Count" he said, spreading his fingers, and some of us counted. There were six. Some said four. Some said five. "Count again." Seven. Six. Three. People started feeling nauseous.

"Listen well! We don't exist. We are a dream, and our true god is waking up. Reality is falling apart, but only the most observant will notice on their own. We have very little time. Await your orders."

And so, we've started building this very weird metal chamber, looks like a nightmarishly complex furnace, with many very weird components involved.

I'm deeply unsettled and I hope you're well. Forever yours,

Joseph -=- Dear Eleonore, We've suceeded! I was frightened beyond belief, but we've survived!

The Engine was finished in time, and the brave mob hunted the Nightmares of the land, so they could be captured and put into the machines. Now their torture is keeping the world together. We're heroes now and we can go home soon. Anticipate me! Truly longing,

Joseph -=- Dear Eleonore, I sit here, in the demolished post office, at the edge of reality, and only void is before me.

My name is David, and I'm a firsthand witness of all that's happened in the fateful days of awakening.

Our god has abandoned us, so we've created a new, clockwork god instead, and now all we can do is pray it never fails us. The nightmares that fuel the engine are subjected to visions so horrible, no sane mind can hope to grasp them. The nightmares of Nightmares. And yet, they are our new gods - lonely, scared and enslaved.

I've spent the last month recovering all the letters I could find, and I hope that once you're dreamt back into reality, all will be well for you. More engines are already in construction, you'll exist soon.

Why am I writing this? Hard to tell. Maybe as a journal, to keep myself sane? It's quite lonely in here, and the void around doesn't bring hope.

I've read rummors of Descartes peering into one of the engines, going absolutely insane in the process. Poor soul, his genius and curiosity was what brough him demise in the end. May you not be forgotten,

David