Eröffnung
On coldest winter, with the sharpest decline of dusk to the deepest night, the thought entered you: 'what if an idea could think itself?' The stars faded away as its dark eye fell on you. The world cascaded into a black, shapeless muck. A physical manifestation of the world you see when you close your eyes in the dark: smears of colors not there, broken senses jumping at shadows. You knew its name immediately: the Formless Recursion that dwells in the back of all minds.
And it knew you.
A voice whispered from far away, but it was impossible to ignore. "Such a little thing, you. What makes you, I wonder?"
