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Paracelsus peered into the crucible, and the elements coalesced. He saw the birth of air, fire, water, earth, and the sunset flamed. In the maelstrom that night, I strode into the sea and the waves parted and I clutched her femininity. In 1967, while on an acid trip, Jimi Hendrix went down to the seabed in a bathysphere. Vivid purple, iridescent orange, fish swam past, and Jimi was high enough to step outside, onto the sea bed, and play for the corals and the sea urchins. Paracelsus and I were discussing cosmology, and, unseen by any of us, Jesus quietly sidled past, stopping only to tell my undine he would appear incognito at the Isle of Wight festival three years later. It is a distant future, the sea has swept us to the mountains. We eat sea-gull eggs and kelp. The sea is black, vast, and prayers echo in the thin air. In my time ten thousand time capsules impregnated the earth but just one has bobbed to the surface. You hold it in your hands. Invaluable, sometimes, the quiet gifts the sky brings. Her soul lay over my heart, and as we sat in the last garden, the pain she felt tore my resolve, and its threads fluttered skywards Yes, I will weaken, and her name now salt upon my lips will never again grow within me. |
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