Imagine a night in Berlin where time folds in on itself. A hidden warehouse, not far from Sisyphos, flickers into life —not for a party, but for a ritualistic rave. Barefoot dancing between holy fire and analog basslines.
Ecstatic sweat meets sacred stillness. Purple clouds strecht time, contract, disappear. Smoke moving like poems. Bodies like fire. An initiation into presence through plant spirit, cacao, sonic rituals, sauna magic, and ecstatic communion.