And it was beautiful but terrifying; a work of art, like the
gentle slope of Abel's ribs. Or the concave of a man
accepting Death's embrace. It felt soft like Pysche's
revival, or perhaps the folds of Dornröschen's dress.
Thick with triumph, it held such similarity to that of Perseus,
Medusa's severed head held high above his own. But most of
all, it held a supreme discomfort, the kind that can only be felt
by the unwilling participants of Imponderabilia, desperately
trying to avoid the face of something born to be embraced.