: 𝔐𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔰 𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔟𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔡 :

Ostara, the first day of spring in the Gweriniaeth yr Ariannin (Argentina in Welsh).
YA krivlyayus (freestyle).

We live in a wonderful reality. I can't remember a day when everything was so consistently disappointing. And while raving crowds of Gandalfs storm the homes of famous technocrats, all I'm capable of is to light up my orb and rant to the queen of Chaos that I had a really bad day. The amount of fucking blyat pizdec that was manifested into the setting exceeded my expectations. Am I supposed to cast this havoc into ashes with the multicoloured force of magick, or else, I don’t know what?

: 𝔐𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔰 𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔟𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔡 :