Chronicles From The Future: The amazing story of Paul Amadeus Dienach

We’re wearing a pair of short, dark-coloured trousers with black stripes that stop slightly below the knee, green silk high socks, a white double breasted vest with white lapels and special white boots that make no noise whatsoever when they touch the ground. And I forgot the green stole-belt that decorates the uniforms of the standard Cives.

At first glance, there are two or three things across the region of the old, central Rosernes Dal that make a strong impression on the traveller: the clarity of the sky due to the lack of traffic, the absence of purely residential areas across the great state, and the lack of the “aura of a capital city”, contrary to the other megacities I’ve visited, mostly in terms of lifestyle and pace of life. I´ve only seen individual means of transport here, and still, they were very high above, personal linsens or vigiozas

that don’t scare you and don’t affect the clarity of the sky.

Here you’ll see no daners, no gigantic, hovering satellite islands, no underground cities or any other sorts of hidden urban extensions and no steel overhead bridges resembling streamers like those in Blomsterfor. And instead of residences, there’s an incredible ocean of monuments and parks and arcades and altars and flower beds. And I wonder, where do these six million people live? I’m quite sure they live on the remote, light blue slopes and hillsides that surround the Valley-excluding of course the Lorffes, the Tilteys

, the Ilectors and the great artists.

And then, exactly what sort of capital is this? Rosernes Dal, equal in size to Norfor, seems more like an idyllic haven of the intellect rather than a real capital city to me… I would accept a term like “the capital of dreams and beauty” to describe it, but it certainly doesn’t feel like the centre of their current universal political and economic community.

It may be the ultimate supervisory authority and the coordination and alignment of their few institutions emanates from here, but none of this becomes obvious to the outsider. A key element in the life of this vast city is what could possibly be called the worship of a mixture of things, like religiosity, art, meditation, and other great spiritual endeavours, which no one tries to hide. In my view, the Valley of the Roses could be described as a kind of Lhasa and Medina of the current “Western” world.

This is, then, where the great-grandchildren of the Europeans who survived the ravages of the wars live: Anglo-Saxons, Slavs, Germans, Greeks, Latinos, Scandinavian, Walloons and Flemings, Dutch and Swiss, Finns and several more nations of European descent. 15-VII

Once again, I’m staying up late writing after having spent the entire day sightseeing, from seven in the morning until nine in the evening. The four of us took a walking tour of the city centre. The early April heat was toned down by the cool breeze and the scented air that wafted with it. You have to walk to most places; otherwise you don’t have time to see anything.

On the way back, our excitement gave way to fatigue. A good shower and a light dinner accompanied by refreshing frozen fruit juices—they don’t touch anything that has alcohol in it and I’m not even sure they’re familiar with its use, except maybe wine. But the girls remained silent the whole time. I noticed that they sat away from each other at the table, both immersed in their thoughts; shortly after they retired to their rooms misty-eyed.

“You keep on with your books and your writing. Don’t bother comforting them,” Stefan whispered to me with a smile. “They’ll be fine… Nobody ever knows why a woman cries. Are their minds gripped by memories? Are they feeling a sense of dissatisfaction despite everything that they saw today? Are they tears of joy? Or are they tears of boredom caused by the lack of employment since all of the main problems of life are solved?”

He was in a somewhat inappropriately good, for the occasion, mood, and although he was trying to be discreet, one would think that he was mocking them for their excessive sensibility. He reminded me that one of the many names used to describe the Valley of the Roses was “the Kingdom of Human Suffering”, referring to the longing of the soul and the deep human element of inner pain, but I think that this name has a more profound and historical meaning; it’s a tribute to the bloody centuries of prehistory.

I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t reply and a few minutes later I withdrew to my room as well. For the first half an hour after dinner I leafed through two compact travel guides about the Rosernes Dal, which, to be honest, were aimed at children and then I settled down to write.