And it was beautiful but terrifying; a work of art, like the gentle slope of Abel's ribs. Or the concave of a man accepting Death's embrace. It felt soft like Pysche's revival, or perhaps the folds of Dornröschen's dress. Thick with triumph, it held such similarity to that of Perseus, Medusa's severed head held high above his own. But most of all, it held a supreme discomfort, the kind that can only be felt by the unwilling participants of Imponderabilia, desperately trying to avoid the face of something born to be embraced.