The silver-foamed riverwalks of Sanitor carry layers of inconsistencies: this odd and average region was never rare nor particularly beautiful yet remains, against its nature, memorable. It is in its very dullness and striking lack of imagination that it looms, constant, over the deeper, unscrutinized recesses of thought, in a space consigned to oblivion, neglected and outshone by the exceptional places that effortlessly settle in typical recollection.
Sanitor’s plains are aptly plain and its rivers run unremarkably of-the-mill. The gardens are all of their own variety and the roads have no beginnings or ends, only middles that regress monotonously. Its exports include prosaic textiles and fabrics, all cut from the same cloth. When the wind howls and the birds sing, it is decidedly ho-hum.
There are those who claim that if a more memorable place were to seek under-explored regions of recall, and found the abandoned conscious zone Sanitor now inhabits, it would easily usurp it—and Sanitor would have no alternative than to depart, lost and erased, as it always has been and always will be.