The whole Universe revolves around him. Yet, Shiva, the great God, destruction incarnate, sits still as stone, still as the surface of a mountain lake on a windless day, quieter than deep space, deep in the icy heart of the Himalayas, rapt in profound meditation, with not a care in the world. On his grass mat, with his menacing trishul thrust into the ground by his side, his hair coiled like a sleeping serpent, adorned with nothing less than the crescent moon. Celestial jewelry. He shows no outward signs of life. No visible breath despite the mercilessly frigid eternal Himalayan winter. No inkling whatsoever of the impending cataclysm. He lies dormant as a patient volcano. Waiting.
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