Against the face of Ivo in a cathedral of writhing through days and nights in the steel.

Ivo can climb gloom-blue up through the dimensions in the girders of the highest Ferris Tower - along the beams of geometric direction toward the heavy self.

The continent tips slowly into the base chasm. Is there any outer space where people can go? Here by the platform, the cathedrals are anchored with pillars in the ocean. There was oil here in the 1990s. Abandoned halls howl bell-clean empty, there is even a lack of mirage phenomena. The oil tower's coarse drills grind in the depth. There is nothing to collect from the emptied ocean-pulse vein.

Flutter of strata between the winds of the higher skies. The spectrum of the night-glowing bow have the opposite order.

Dimensions bent from incredible distance-vertigo.
Flutter against the face of Ivo beneath my hands' deadly calm water milk.

Translation: Johannes Göransson