There is a book that exists, a book of prophecies, a book with no name. It was created and released by the Madfather for the sole purpose of sowing insanity among mankind.

For the book contains an accurate record of everything that is yet to come, set down in clear and unambiguous prose. Every scholar, every fortune-seeker, every dilettante who has read it has gone mad and spent their days gibbering in a cell or worse.

Why is that? the uninitiated, the ignorant wonder. What’s so maddening about the future?

Unlike the books of literature, the Necronomicon, the Book of Eibon, which supposedly drive the reader mad through sheer wrongness, the book of nameless prophecies offers only truth, only fact.

But what truth, what fact.

Think about it. What person could fail to go mad at reading their own history in exacting detail, knowing they can do nothing to change it? The ultimate fate of mankind–indeed, of the Earth–in the far future? With the next few moments of a reader’s own perusing of the book near the beginning for good measure.

No, children, you must beware the nameless book of the Madfather and seek it not out, lest you share in that unhappy fate.

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