Lately, I’ve become fascinated by the idea of a living castle—a breathing, writhing thing that’s half creature and half architecture: with never-ending halls and evolving dungeons, flesh-walled ballrooms and scaly bone bridges bound together by sinews. This castle would never be the same. Cells are created, cells perish. Cells are life and cells are rooms. The castle’s lifespan would be many times that of any civilization, let alone a human, but it would not be immortal. One day, it would die and its beautiful exterior and unmappable insides would die, decompose and turn to ruin and dust.
I want to write one of the stories of this castle, or rather its only story, which is repeated time and again: a band of characters enter, searching for an answer, in pursuit of some goal, or perhaps they stumble upon the castle by accident during the most violent storm (rain, snow, sand) and, once they’re inside, cannot find their way out. But however they got there, the characters will never leave. Some will die trying, others will give up, but the third group—the most interesting group—will stay willingly and knowingly, submitting to the castle’s will and existence, becoming its keepers and guides, the way in our time, in our world, people guide us through wild terrain, operating systems and the mysteries of our own bodies.