Özet

The knotting of the twigs. Gnarled Obzhynki. Erde's Congregation. In the woods, a spark is lit. The black masses rise anew. A raven's nest in bloom. The Sabbath has begun. A few kilometers away from there, you enter the same shabby office building you have for the past year and a half, constrained to wither away your fickle little life on corporate work and cheap booze. The world is a contradiction, dull yet garish, numbing yet full of quiet panic. But it doesn't have to be.