Beyond the dim, childish rays of Sol burn the steady, glowering lights of slumbering embers. Millions of lifetimes away lie the quasars, the softly thrumming globes of aging light, somehow ancient in the youngest part of the universe. Their light is cold and dim, but harsh, blanketing the cold, dead stones that drift in their scrambling, cantankerous gravity with oceans of radiation and soft, silent death. The anciently young baubles roil and bubble with youthful, rotting cores, belching forth their combined first breaths and death rattles. They twist slowly in their near-eternal dying birth, bubbling and muttering to themselves for eons in tongues of radiation and cooling heat.
Even these contradictory beings are not eternal, and soon they cool, bloating with the carrion of their own burning bodies. Some burst finally, breaking their simultaneous dance of life and death, to spawn new strangeness. Others collapse, falling just shy of this final freedom, cooling to black, silent, hateful balls of regret and loss. Twisting in their hallucinating, dreaming cores, they turn black, still shells to the hated universe, the sprightly, twinkling upstart stars and scrambling worlds, to dream and sleep the sleep of the sick and forgetful.
Stars, like men, however, are mortal, and are therefore open to those that are not. Like a man falling asleep to wake as someone new, the void-hearted quasar can forget who they are, and become remembered by another. One, dreaming in its own ashes, slowly found itself becoming the dream, the doddering, hating core slipping away as a new dreamer took its place, a dreamer whose thoughts sent the dream plunging away, vanishing in to void and oblivion then to know for a moment that such a dreamer existed, let alone lie subject to its whims. For epochs it then dreamed of nothing, its lost dreams not missed or even noticed by those that see time as a ocean, and not a path.
Then, in time, the dreamer awoke.
The tiny, sparkling life that grew in the coddling shadow of Sol found the place of Knowing. One, unimportant and unknown, came seeking. In his seeking, he was made aware of the dreamer, and by that knowledge, the dreamer became aware of him. The dreamer came, the awareness pressing in to the tiny point, to find it pleasing and strange. It awoke, and seeped in to the vacant star's corpse, pulling flecks of reality to clothe its own vacant eyes.
Boiling with new knowledge, it pushed, feeling the feeble waters of reality part and ripple before it, and began to travel, crawling and oozing on the walls of its shell, feeling new sensation, awareness, and knowledge. It rolls softly, a scarab in its own tomb, to feel, to know, to change, and to take all that is lacking. It comes to spread awareness in to life, and feel the soft constriction of mortality around it, like the hug of a dying child. It comes at its leisure. It comes at the pace of blank void. But it comes.
To worship and bring the Broken to the world is merely the anointing of the offering. To prepare the vessel to be filled, to allow its endurance beyond the flickering points of mortality. We will turn undying eyes to the sun, and watch the eons roll past. Watch as the great, gray home grows behind it, swelling with trivial ages. Watch as its burning, vapid light is extinguished and replaced with the cold, aged seepage of the dreamer's shell. We will raise our arms, all, on our waiting, Whole world, and be filled with the awareness of the dreamer's core, and vanish to its pleasure.
To restore the Broken is great. To be known by The Gray Awareness is greater.
So says Anna, third Prophet of the Age of Strife, second Acolyte to The Gray Awareness, servant to the Church.

Document recovered by investigating Agents. Authenticity of the physical document has been verified. References to the subject matter have not been found in any other documents recovered from the Church.