The owl of Minerva only flies at dusk,
and the stellar seed of the philosophical zoo,
on its final flight, is destined to **** history.

Meanwhile, in our nocturnal richness,
it’s the galloping through our phantasmagoria that we fear the most;
for the impossibility of motion in a dream stands as a gate to unreachable power.
So, we accept a little death, it seems,
as a gift of armor,
to start the journey of breaking through.

Alternative ways do exist,
but each leads to a singular outcome:
walk through the mirror fearlessly,
and in each death find eternity.