"Then," said Gud, "this is a dull place. What do you call it?"
Replied the ghosts, who had a very long time to live: "We have no name for the place, but we are very happy here."
When Gud learned that this place was nameless, he whistled for his Underdog and they went on and passed through an impalpable fog of etheric vibrations, and over a great gulf of sublimated emptiness, and through a dark forest of neglected memories, and across a sandless desert swept by a breathless wind.
Chapter LV
The graveyard of the gods is silent under a heavy sky,
Where all the gods who never lived are buried when they die.
Pale angels kneel beside the graves, stretching row on row,
And madmen carrying mouldy flowers quickly come and go.
A withered lily in her hand Saint Any-One-At-All,
With pale, thin fingers opens the gate in an ivied wall.
Her face an open wound of wonder, bleeding with defeat,
And as she walks, the shining snow crunches under her feet.
The ghosts of trees reach icy arms up to a starless sky,
Mourning the gods who never were that rest here when they die.