Like a hammer that’s too short. Like a wall that feels lacking. Like a land of giants, vanished. Like a god among gods who aren’t your own. Perfect in an imperfect world or imperfect in a perfect world; your imperfection shown. Yggdrasil overgrown and all the options leave you empty. At first nine worlds seem plenty but soon you hope for twenty, finding no treasures tempting. Your desires in the waters of three holy wells reflecting a thing that seems calm and collected: an ending to the ending; soft but not, like a pillow made of rock, you rest your head upon the thought of Ragnarök.