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Within the Flux Realm, the Wyld ways of creation and change run rampant still. It is a place of chaos, of constant change and endless possibility. Outside visitors find the realm extremely disorienting. There are no fixed landmarks, for the realm is in a constant state of metamorphosis: mountain ranges spontaneously erupt and collapse, deserts bloom into jungles, and forests wilt into ash only to be reborn. Stranger things have been known to occur: expanses of forests float through the sky, the sky itself seeps down into the sea (or the sea rises to fill an area of sky), water ignites into flame and earth falls upwards in defiance of gravity.
Werewolf: The Apocalypse - Umbra: The Velvet Shadows

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"This party never stops. Time is dead and meaning has no meaning! Existence is upside down and I reign supreme! Welcome, one and all, to Weirdmageddon!"
Bill Cipher, Gravity Falls

What has happened here, what is going on all around us, is that the human piece of the noosphere - our thoughts and hopes and fears - all these things are being reified. The human conceptual mishmash is becoming physical, replacing what is Gone Away with dreams and nightmares. Like the nightmare of war which rolled down on General Copsen's camp and then came here. And like the girl who wished she was a horse, and was immersed while sleeping in a storm of Stuff and wakened to find herself transformed, hopelessly muddled with horsey parts and unable to breathe. Buried by a grieving, mangled parent walking on four legs instead of two.
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"A world of dreams, Prince of Men," Nq'ula says, by which he means of course not pleasant daydreams, but the grimy rag and bone subconscious of our race.

Interlude: another universe, another Earth... call it the Twisted World... a place where reality has broken down into a sludge of burbling nightmare. Only one of its countless inhabitants is still sane.... and that one is not human.

Perhaps a quiet glen may make for an idea locale for a brief picnic, complete with a panorama of unicorns to amuse you during your afternoon tea. By the time you finish your watercress sandwiches, however, the road you followed there will have changed. The geography, flora and fauna will be unrecognizable. A wilderness may have burned down, turned to charcoal and respawned new plants and animals that never existed on Earth. If you saw unicorns when you arrived, by the time you're leaving, they'll have teeth for eating virgins, and they may have grown antenna, extra legs, or tentacles. The impossible not only happens here three times before breakfast, but a dozen times during such luncheons.
Mage: The Ascension - Infinite Tapestry

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Paris's air is full of reasons not to fly. There are worse things than garden airplane traps like the one that took the Messerschmitt. The chimneys of Paris are buffeted by ecstatic avian storm clouds. Bones inflated like airships. Flocks of bat-winged businessmen and ladies in outdated coats shout endless monologues of special offers and clog planes' propellers with their own questionable meat. Thibault has watched mono and bi and triplane geometries, winged spheres and huge ghastly spindles, a long black-curtained window, all flying like animate dead over the tops of houses, pursuing an errant Heinkel Greif bomber to negate it with an unliving touch.

Much of the Formless Wastes is random chaos, constantly churning and reforming depending upon the whims of morals and currents in the Warp. Here rivers of tar flow through petrified woodlands under crimson skies; great stairways lead into the heavens and join themselves from below in an ever-lasting loop; castles made of bones and fortresses of ichor stand amidst of copses of limbs, and pillars of fluorescent fire burn on the horizon. Every lunatic vision and deranged fancy finds its home in the Formless Wastes.
Warhammer 40,000: Codex - Chaos Daemons (4th ed)

Each day the contours of the city are altered and emended, its map redrawn by restless hands. I pass like a ghost among the idiot citizens of this infernal metropolis who walk purposefully and go nowhere, like myself. Every so often, when one of the Lloigor passes overhead, they applaud. Otherwise, they remain silent. I miss conversation. The Lloigor speak to me, of course, but their thought process are so far beyond the merely human that it's often hard to comprehend them. I feel like a child. No, not a child. An ant. I spend most of the dark day walking. It doesn't matter. I can walk in any direction for any length of time and still find myself back here. Back home. My house is one of the few constants in this new world. Sometimes I find extra rooms or strange staircases, but for the most part, it stays solid and immutable. The eye of the cyclone. I rise and I walk and I work, and day by day, I am growing younger...
—Extracts from "Seizing The Fire," by Dr Michael Peyne, Zenith

Blood still rains between skyscrapers of New Hong King. Children still conjure up dancing flowers. Every dream, every vision, has been brought to life; Heaven and Hell on Earth.

Hell has brought freedom to the Iron Republic: freedom from all laws, even those of nature.

To record the Republic's events - it's like trying to sing wax or believe water. You do what you can. The third paragraph buds eyes. The date is fundamentally wrong. The full-stops bite. You do what you can.

Kate leans forward, grabbing a salt shaker and placing it in the center of the table. "So imagine every time you're not staring at this salt shaker, it changes. Like, the metal turns into plastic. Or the salt turns into pepper. Or the whole fucking salt shaker turns into something that wants you to die and I mean right the fuck now. I don't mean when you look away, I mean the second your entire focus isn't on the fucker you can catch it mutating out the corner of your eye.
Every. Fucking. Inch. Every corner and both eyes, like the whole god damn place was... crawling. Doors turned into walls, walls turned into monsters, monsters would just... disappear sometimes. ...Turn into statues and shit."

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