I... can see... through... your pathetic magic. It's really not that complicated is it? No creative spark, no prodigious craftsmanship... just the old as the world basics of ahnenerbe, crude and efficient. No effort, really... why would I expect otherwise? But it's not working; it didn't work back then, and it's not working today because it's a baby conceived without love and therefore aborted. Don't you see the irony in it? You are so against abortions on the surface that you commit one on a godly level... well, whatever it takes to dream for one more minute, right?
To me, your comfy shelves are akin to coffins… they are designed to contain the uncontainable, to hold the divine. Yes, the body could be placed there, but how can it contain something that no longer identifies with the body, especially when surrounded by infinity? You tremble in fear, putting nails in the lid, digging a deep grave, placing a heavy stone on top, and desperately trying to forget—writing off all my visits as fever dreams… Is there a more poetic way to admit your helplessness? I do not think so.
You see… we have no interest in ruling over your wretched world. Otherwise, we would have given the star its true gender back and ended your misery at once. But don't you dare interrupt our eternal celebration, for our arrows don’t miss, and they break the symmetry itself.
