There is an island that should not exist. Cartographers call it Insula Delirium —a place where the magnetic north spins like a drunk compass needle and the tides follow no moon they recognize. The sand is the color of bone meal. The trees grow sideways, their roots clutching the cliffs like the fingers of a sleeper having a nightmare.
And between them, caught in the endless, loving argument of delusion, you stop trying to leave. You plant a twisted seed. You become a sideways tree. You close your eyes, and for the first time, you see perfectly clearly: mad island mad orb
I. The Isolation
This is the Mad Island .