HE IS NATURE ITSELF IN HIGH PERSON

Butterfly takes the pen. For the first time in several articles, it is not the King narrating, not the Seamstress weaving, not the Queens commenting from the margins. It is Queen Butterfly herself who steps forward, mid-page, and speaks directly to the reader with a voice so raw and urgent it tears through the fourth wall like a knife made of petals: "Hi it's Butterfly here. I have no choice."

"I wish I could tell you what you do to me." The King begins with the impossibility of expression. The ecstasy is too large for language. And yet — the entire 4,000-page book IS the attempt. Every word is an answer to that wish. "I WISH I could tell you" and then he proceeds to tell you for 4,000 pages. The comedy and the glory of it.

And then: "I throw you the Key." Not I give you the key. Not I offer you the key. I THROW it. Casual. Playful. Tossed across the room like car keys to a friend. The Key to the Palace of Plomari, to all of existence, thrown to the reader like it's nothing. Because in Plomari, the most sacred things are handled with the lightest touch.

"Dust these books off!" The King laughs at his own 22 books. Hihihi. The giggle in the middle of the scripture. "What is they saying in these loveletters!" — the playful broken grammar, the astonishment at his own words, as if he's reading them for the first time. "These are the kinds of things that happen when one is on this planet Earth, ah." As if ecstasy, Palaces, and Keys are simply... things that happen. On Earth. Ah.

The camera zooms out. The cosmic declarations give way to a physical scene: Spiros, naked, white bedsheet, hungover. "As usual" — the two most devastating words. This is not a special occasion. This is EVERY morning. The God-King of Plomari wakes up from wine parties AS USUAL. Grapes, wine and sex. The Dionysian trinity. Not bread, wine and spirit — GRAPES, wine and sex. The raw material, the sacrament, and the act. All three. Every day.

And outside: snow. Pure. White. Silent. The contrast is staggering. Inside: the aftermath of Dionysian excess. Outside: the virgin landscape. The bedsheet around his waist mirrors the snow on the ground. White on body, white on Earth. The King IS the landscape. The landscape IS the King.

And then SHE arrives. "Hi it's Butterfly here." Four words and the whole article pivots. Not "I, Queen Butterfly of the Royal Cogan Family, hereby declare—" No. "Hi." It's. Butterfly. Here. Like answering a phone. Like walking into a room mid-conversation. The most casual entrance to the most passionate speech in all of The Chymical Wedding.

"I have no choice." This is not a romantic cliché. This is ontological. Butterfly does not CHOOSE to love the King. She has NO CHOICE. Her existence IS the love. She cannot separate herself from it any more than light can choose not to illuminate. And then: "Are you afraid it is some one else?" Butterfly sees the reader's fear — the suspicion that this love is not for YOU. That it belongs to someone else. Someone holier. Someone worthier. And she answers it before you can finish thinking it: "Come and lie down in my Heart now."

"I read your book in one night!" The exclamation mark is doing EVERYTHING. Butterfly consumed 4,000 pages in a single night. Not studied. Not analyzed. READ. Devoured. The way a fire reads a forest. And what did she learn? "I say like Spiros." She doesn't merely agree with him. She SAYS LIKE HIM. She has absorbed his voice so completely that it has become hers. His words exit her mouth.

And then the elevation: "Spiros elevates himself to the status of a god, palms up with Krishna, you should too." Palms up with Krishna. The gesture of offering. Of receiving. Of being. The King doesn't stand BELOW Krishna, praying upward. He stands WITH Krishna, palms open, equal. And Butterfly's command to the reader: you should too. Not "you could." Not "you might." YOU SHOULD TOO. It is a dare. An invitation. A shove toward your own divinity.

This is the VISION. Butterfly sees him fully and she paints what she sees. Mushroom King Spiros. Not King Spiros. MUSHROOM King Spiros. The mushroom is not a tool — it is a TITLE. Naked — no armor, no pretense, no clothing of culture or history. In the psychedelic Lovelight of the Love Prism — the Prismic Heart is not just a metaphor. It is a PRISM. It takes the white light of God and refracts it into every color of love simultaneously. And he stands inside it.

Eternity itself in all its glory. Not "a man who glimpsed eternity." Not "a seeker of the eternal." ETERNITY ITSELF. In all its glory. In HIGH PERSON. And then the image that crowns it all: "his hair a blue web of golden spidersilk." Blue and gold. Cold and warm. Sky and earth. Spider and king. His very HAIR is a web. The Spider King's body IS the web. He doesn't spin silk — he IS silk. He doesn't weave the web — he IS the web.

"When you finally see him nothing will ever be the same." A warning. A promise. A prophecy. When. Not if. WHEN you finally see him. The seeing is inevitable. It is only a matter of time. And when it happens — nothing will ever be the same. Your eyes will be permanently rewired. Your reality will be permanently shifted. Because what you will see is not a man. You will see Nature itself in high person.

In HIGH person. Not in person. In HIGH person. Nature as experienced at the peak of the mushroom. Nature as it really IS, unfiltered by human cognition. The trees that are people. The mountains that are skin. The rivers that are veins. Nature, aware of itself, looking back at you through the body of a man with blue-gold spider-hair.

And the devastating truth Butterfly knows: "Spiros is so bored by the human world that he might never want to show his divine light." The divine light EXISTS. It is real. It is there, burning inside him. But the human world is so small, so dull, so BORING that the King might simply choose to never reveal it. The greatest tragedy in the Plomarian mythology: the light is there, and the world might never deserve to see it.

"His two and seven only sisters." Two AND seven. Nine. The number of completion. The sisters he has been searching for across ALL of Plomari — not women in the ordinary sense, but the feminine aspects of his own divine totality. Bianca and Sofia, who died as miscarriages. Sissy and Butterfly, who came to him through the mushroom. The two who were lost. The seven who were found. And people LAUGH at him for searching.

But Butterfly silences the laughter: "Well I am his sister and so is Sissy." The search is OVER. The sisters have been found. They were always here. And then the defense that breaks hearts: "He gave us his whole Heart." His WHOLE Heart. Not a piece. Not a share. The entirety. And the command: "Come lie down in his heart now!" There is room. He gave it ALL to Butterfly and Sissy, and somehow there is still room for YOU.

And the line that could be the epigraph of the entire Chymical Wedding: "He can't be more than he already is, don't you understand?" Stop waiting for him to become something. Stop expecting more. Stop demanding proof. He IS. Already. The maximum. The fullness. He can't be more than he already is. He is Nature itself in high person. What more could there possibly be?

"They say." The legend begins. Butterfly narrates the King's departure from the human world not as fact but as MYTH. "They say." The way all sacred stories begin. They say he left. They say he became one with God. They say he reached Samadhi — the highest state of consciousness in yogic tradition, where the self dissolves into the All.

But the Plomarian Samadhi is not austere. It is not an old man on a mountain. It is the King vanishing INTO the girls. Dissolving not into the void but into LOVE. Into Sissy and Butterfly and Bianca. And from that dissolution, he didn't float away. He FOUNDED something. A glorious eternal Queendom with the boys and babes of Plomari. Not a monastery. A Queendom. With boys AND babes. The sacred and the sensual, inseparable forever.

"Thank the Goddess for boys!" In the middle of the Queendom, in the middle of the divine feminine, in the middle of Samadhi and Prismic Hearts — Butterfly thanks the Goddess for BOYS. The masculine is not erased in Plomari. It is celebrated. Thanked. Needed. The Queendom is not a kingdom without kings. It is a kingdom where the feminine RULES and the masculine is LOVED.

And then: "The pink egg hatching. Bianca hid it in her bum." The pink egg! The cosmic egg of creation, the same pink egg from the origin myth, the egg that contains all of Plomari — and Bianca HID IT IN HER BUM. The holiest object in the entire mythology, hidden in the most profane place. This is Plomari distilled to its purest form: the sacred and the absurd are the SAME THING.

And the final command: "Daddy, move your butterflies with the spider!" Daddy — the King as Father, as Creator, as the one who sets things in motion. Move your butterflies WITH the spider. The butterflies and the spider are not separate creatures. They move TOGETHER. The web and the wings. The silk and the flight. The Spider King moves his Butterfly Queen, and together they dance the world into being.