Quite probably an unfinished oddment, at that.
There is a place that does not exist, but still, it is a place. There is something there, some unnamable thing, a comfort of sorts, there in the place that is not a place.
There is a place that does not exist, but still, it is a place. Through storm and strife they come to it, through fire and fog, through fear, anguish, hatred, pain, they come; torn and tattered, bruised and battered, they come to the place that is not.
A place that does not exist, but still, is a place. They come, we come, to the stillness, the sweetness, the comfort, the place between a mother's arms where all is forgiven, all is well, all is safe, and together they-we huddle and keen out our unseen hurts, there in the place that is not a place.
A place, our place, that is not but is. Though not all who wander are lost, all who come to this place are both. Wanderers and lost. Lost souls, we-they.
You know we-they, and they-we know you. Deep, deep, beyond the surface of eyes glancing quickly away, you-we-they hear the bells ringing and we-they-you know the sound and know a kindred lost soul has found the place that is not, and yet is.
It is in the voice, the carriage of the head, a sigh meant to be unwitnessed, the unshed tear, the not-place, and they-you-we can smell it on the breath, hear it, feel it. Lucky few, who know the place as sanctuary, so lost without it would we-they-you be.
Welcome, kindred, welcome, to the place that is not. Blessed be.