Even as I build, as the physical substance of my body strains to construct the objects that I require in this age, I feel the outer fringes of my consciousness tapping the mental substance of my being, the edges of my mind planting the seeds of imagination that will become the next age. So, I have begun to have glimpses of Arimarl, a sea without water, only a single lush oasis replete in an ocean of sand. The momentum of my "creativity" pendulates once again, as I tire of the damp dead mechanisms prevalent in my current age to the dry island of life in my next.

Atrus, Mechnical Age Journal