Your world among sweet Bogatyr is slow, so slow. He rules with longevity and absolution. The hammer and the space. Think of the complexity of great structures, of the intricacies of cerebral men. In a single second of contemplation is the universe. Might you deign to glimpse such a startling end? We are science and art, worldly and unworldy. We judge not your genitals, your duress. We believe in that which exists outside of nature. You will see our models with wooden eyes, gashed cheeks and mismatched animals dangling from their breasts. You will see new forms of women and men. Unordinary, anything but banal! It is no longer possible to return to your former self. The wounds of Bogatyr sleep in the sinewy thread of your new body, your new soul. Yes! No disease will afflict you that may not be fought with compressions. No invention of man may accost you. No love may destroy your heart again. We are not these beasts of casual allure, we are creations of the deepest, most precise incarnation of the absolute. To wound oneself may be dangerous, but one might ask what it really is to feel alive. Nothing on Bogatyr’s earth is so great as this!