It’s hard to describe what it’s like on the mainland to someone who hasn’t been there. All the old landmarks are there, the ground and it’s layout are mostly familiar but they’ve been rewritten, scribbled over and the space between them is distorted.
The scientists at Osbourne say it’s something to do with collective memory and emotional investment. People expect to see the Houses of Parliament in London and so they do. Weird thing is that you can almost always see it, and the wheel, and the Gherkin, no matter where in the city you are.
That’s the blank slate upon which the weirdness has settled. The shadows filled with people’s nightmares, the tube overrun with black spiders whose bite is deadly and who whisper shameful events from some poor guy’s childhood.
Castles sit next to victorian housing blocks. Beanstalks rise up into the clouds and disappear. Bears lurk by the battered remnants of pedestrianised areas waiting for someone to step on a crack in the pavement.
They send us into this madness because we’re immune. We can go in, we can find people, we can bring them out and we do all this by conjuring and shifting the world around us through our imaginations. We can imprint what we want, what we imagine, onto this landscape and we’re the only ones that can.
I don’t see how it helps, but it is better than nothing.