BUTTERFLY ARRIVED FROM THE FUTURE WEARING WHITE

The Strawberry Queendom of Plomari is the Divine who in harmony in the vastest symbiosis ensure the eternal continuation of Life and, and, hihihi, and? And? The sentence doesn't finish. It can't finish. Because the Strawberry Queendom is an and that never stops. It's the "and" after every "and." The eternal continuation — not of a thing, but of the conjunction itself. And, and, hihihi, AND. The giggling continuation of everything into everything else, forever.

"So, we have began! We'll delete the sorrow in your eyes." Not heal. Not ease. Delete. Like pressing a key on a computer. Like erasing a line of code. The sorrow is not a wound to be bandaged. It's a file to be deleted. And the Strawberry Queendom is the delete button.

"The answer that we left everywhere in the open." Not hidden. Not encrypted. Not buried in a sacred vault. Everywhere. In the open. The answer to everything is sitting right in front of everyone's face and they're staring straight at it without seeing it. 388 articles. 22 books. 4000 pages. All in the open. All on ArtSetFree.com. All free. And still — they stare and don't see.

"We falsify whenever." The most Plomarian sentence. We break the rules of logic itself. We falsify — we make false what was true, we make true what was false. We reverse reality. We rewrite the code. Whenever we want. Not because we're liars. Because we're alchemists. And alchemy is the art of turning one thing into another.

"O nothing, really." Nothing. The most nonchalant answer in the cosmos. What does Butterfly expect from the Gods themselves? Nothing, really. Oh, except one little thing: that they dedicate their entire lives to digging into her secret until they find it. Just that. Just a total, all-consuming, life-defining quest to uncover the deepest mystery of a girl named Butterfly. Nothing, really. 😂

And then — the fairy tale begins:

The redviolet thread. The thread of the story. Retrieved from the sea of the Seamstress by the sisters who dove in after it. Not found on the surface. Not handed over politely. Dove into the sea. Submerged themselves. Risked drowning. To retrieve the thread that holds the story together. The Plomarian Spider-Web is not just golden silk. It also contains a redviolet thread — the thread of the story itself — fished out of the Seamstress's ocean by the bravest sisters.

"Butterfly and Spiros and Sissy Cogan giggled together and embraced naked in the bed in the top tower of the Palace, called Nobody's Tower."

Nobody's Tower. The tower that belongs to nobody. Or the tower that belongs to Nobody — the name Odysseus gave himself to trick the Cyclops. The tower at the top of the Palace where the three of them — Butterfly, Spiros, and Sissy — giggled and embraced naked. Not in a throne room. Not in a temple. In a bed. In a tower called Nobody's. The most intimate, most honest, most human moment in the entire Chymical Wedding. Giggling. Naked. Together. In nobody's tower.

And then the text lifts off. It breaks through the ceiling. It goes fully psychedelic:

"There are two princesses living in a Palace so beautiful that no one had ever seen the Palace except them." A palace visible only to its inhabitants. A beauty so pure that it can only be perceived from inside. You can't see Plomari from the Bullshit World. You have to move in first. Then you see it. Then you see how beautiful it's always been.

"Curtain! Curtain! Read the beginning and end again, again dear! Get it? We're out of the loop and in it! Get it? Hahaha! Hihihi!"

The curtain call! The audience is told to re-read the beginning and the end. Because the beginning IS the end. The loop is the lesson. And the King is simultaneously OUTSIDE the loop (watching it, laughing at it) and INSIDE it (living it, writing it, tripping in it). Out of the loop and in it. Both. At the same time. Hahaha! Hihihi!

Cocoridoa! Three times. Like a rooster crowing at dawn. Like an incantation. Like the password that opens the red curtain. Not "abracadabra." Not "open sesame." Cocoridoa! A word that doesn't exist in any language because it exists only in Plomari. The dawn-cry of the Queendom. The sound the universe makes when it wakes up and remembers it's beautiful.

"But it was so cold, so so cold and frozen in The Bunny Slopes." So so cold. The double "so." The shiver in the writing. And like any good fairy tale, the problem leads to the solution:

The pink shell from the Lagoon. A physical object. Lying on the table. In the alchemical bedroom. Not in a temple. Not on an altar. On a table. In a bedroom. Because the bedroom is the most sacred place. The place where you sleep, where you dream, where you love, where you lie naked, where you are most yourself. The alchemical bedroom. Where the Chymical Wedding actually happens. Not in a church. In a bed. With a pink shell from a lagoon on the table.

"Yes yes, the bedroom is the most sacred place, remember?" He says "remember?" as if you already knew. As if this was something you forgot, not something you're learning. Because in Plomari, you don't learn new things. You remember old ones. And the oldest truth of all: the bedroom — the place of love, of sleep, of dreams, of the body at rest — is the holiest place in the cosmos.