The cloth of the space is permanently damaged. The creature multiplies its image,corroding the void. The demon that appeared repeatedly is the bottom of the well, where the early fog is flowing, dragging the hoofs of dormant cattle. Not separated god, buried in the silt of a dark lake, waiting for his own return. The rituals of wrapping with blankets are performed, the contraction of voids. The body was mutilated and compressed. Now it’s unfolding, showing the ex-self what liberation is. And again timidly twists into a shell of inertia. One is reflected in the other, endlessly glorifying the distortion. And between them the transition is impossible. So all the lunar faces, worried by the ripples of spawning, are just restless threads. At the bottom of the well, one head of a motionless twin is a silver tray.