The narrow path opens into a large hall. Its left and right walls are lined semi-regularly with colour glass windows displaying what your traumatic roman catholic upbringing allows you to recognize as the Stations of the Cross. The edges of the glass tiles are wobbly, cartoonishly distorting the pictured figures’ features. In one image, Jesus seems positively delighted to be carrying his cross while the people around him are stretched out so widely that they lose their humanity and devolve into abstract shapes. The world outside seems to be covered in fog, at least you can’t make out anything beyond the glass. Considering the fog’s apparent density, you are surprised by the strength of the light beams which fall in through the windows: The multicoloured rays lucidly illuminate the space- to the same degree on both sides, as if there were multiple suns. The rays pass over rows of the same sort of stalac-structures which you saw before, though the ones in this room have grown together to form pillars and are placed in a manner so orderly that it evokes the image of an artificial forest of trees whose sole allowance for living is the wood they will provide in death. Between the pillars sit strangely angular, uncomfortable-looking rotten benches. There is a pillarless path in the centre of the room, leading deeper yet into this strange space. You can make out a pulsating green light at its end.
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