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Abel recalled the dream. In the civilized wilderness, the sun slipped from the black clot, guarded by dull dog eyes. The earth beneath my feet gasped for breath. There are also pink bras with floating ribbons. That's a curse! Later he became a "mysterious poet". He gradually understood the nature of this curse. The blood of night knocked over by shadows, the hollow men, the unknown gods. Secret ritual, secret weapon, abnormality, gibbering. The sacred and ugly crows circled, and Abel played with the dice of fate as he walked. He thought, this world is inherently beautiful and poetic. Not the Holy MotherNo harem