VɅTRɅ — Ternopil

The moon has seen everything but this. The darkest night of August — when the sky empties out and the waning crescent hones an old rule to its edge: what comes off a person on the wane does not come back to them as gain. When five names lead you through the murk as through powder, and each one takes its due. When the bow lies down over distortion the way a keening lies over low end, and the string draws the same note as the charm. When the air thickens into a haze where it is easier to get lost than to breathe, and an hour inside the circle is not an hour outside it. The circle opens at 17:00. It closes at 22:30. What happens between is not retold in words — words are the first to burn.