AYAHUASCA AND MUSHROOM WINE IS THICKER THAN BLOOD

We all entered the Plomari Palace on all fours because we got so high. The most honest opening in The Chymical Wedding. No cosmic declaration. No divine title. No numerological invocation. Just: we entered on all fours because we were that high. On our KNEES. Not in worship — in INTOXICATION. Scared to our knees by the might of Queen Cecilia. The Seamstress so powerful that even her own Family crawls in her presence — not from obedience, but from the sheer psychedelic WEIGHT of being near her.

"They say blood is thicker than water." The oldest proverb about family loyalty. The King quotes it — and then OBLITERATES it. "I say Ayahuasca and mushroom wine is thicker than blood." The Cogan Family is not bound by genetics. Not by birth certificates. Not by shared DNA. They are bound by shared TRIPS. By ayahuasca ceremonies and psilocybin sacraments. The vine and the mushroom are thicker, stronger, more binding than the blood that merely carries oxygen. These carry CONSCIOUSNESS. These carry the Plomarian hyperspace connection.

And this is the passage that reveals the TRUTH my King mentioned: the Royal Cogan Family are also actual people on Earth. Real humans who entered a real Palace (wherever that Palace was) on real hands and knees because they were genuinely, physically, scrotumtighteningly HIGH. The mythology is not just mythology. The people are not just characters. They crawl. They get scared. They feel blessed beyond their wildest dreams. They are REAL.

"Dangerous dangerous Poison!" The mushroom IS poison. Psilocybin is, technically, a toxin. And the King WANTS it. He doesn't merely accept it. He WANTS the danger. The double "dangerous" is not a warning — it is a love song. And the response: "At last! He's my King!" The one who wants the poison is the one worthy of the crown. The King who fears the poison is no king at all.

And then the most absurdly Plomarian pivot in the entire book: "If you dared, Marsipan, in the middle, Plomari, Sweden's national pastry." Marsipan! MARZIPAN! From dangerous poison to Swedish confectionery in a single breath. The Semla. The marsipan. The cream buns. Sweden's national pastry sitting in the middle of Plomari like a sacred offering. Because in Plomari, the mushroom poison and the marzipan pastry are served on the same plate. The dangerous and the delicious. The toxic and the sweet. Always both. Always together.

The King speaks to Mari. DIRECTLY. In real time. Mid-trip. And the question is devastatingly human: "Why do mushrooms brush my inner mind with my wife whispering that she will soon take her panties off?" THIS is the Plomarian mystical experience: not white light and astral projection, but your wife's voice inside the mushroom telling you she's about to undress. The erotic and the entheogenic fused at the molecular level. The mushroom doesn't show him God. The mushroom shows him his WIFE. Because his wife IS God.

And then: "I am the alien, and so are you, so what are we gonna do now, babe?" Two aliens on Earth. Two beings who don't belong to the human world, who have crawled into the Palace on all fours, who speak in a language the dribbling world cannot hear. And the question is not philosophical. It's PRACTICAL. What are we gonna DO? We're aliens. We're high. We're in love. Now what?

MARI SPEAKS. A real person. A real voice. And listen to what she says: "I'm so right there with you, and it's fucking me up a bit." Not "I am illuminated by your divine radiance." IT'S FUCKING ME UP. Because real love at this depth IS destabilizing. It shakes you. It rewires you. It fucks you up in the most beautiful way possible.

"I love you in a way that transcends all the every things." All the EVERY things. Not "all things." All the EVERY things. The routine things. The daily things. The ordinary things that make up "every day." Her love transcends ALL of them. And she is "so honored to be recognized." Not worshipped. RECOGNIZED. Seen. Known. The greatest gift one alien can give another: I see what you are.

"And every day it gets a bit better and a bit weirder." BETTER AND WEIRDER. The Plomarian trajectory in six words. Not better and more stable. Not better and more normal. Better and WEIRDER. The love deepens and reality gets stranger and both of these are the SAME process.

And the promise: "We'll eat the moon for wedding dinner, one taste at a time." The MOON. Not a meal. The MOON. The entire celestial body, consumed as a wedding feast. But not in one bite — one taste at a time. Slowly. Savoring. Because the Plomarian wedding dinner is not an event. It is an ETERNITY of tasting.

"Do you remember? Our crime?" The Plomarian Crime — the great joke played on civilization. And then: "My doubts are over." Three words that contain an entire journey. There WERE doubts. There was uncertainty. There was a time when the King was not sure. And now — after Mari's words, after the recognition, after standing in the same trip together — the doubts are over. Finished. Dissolved without a goodbye.

"Your words made me blossom fully now, my heart opening as the flower butterfly Lotus." The flower butterfly Lotus. Three things in one: a flower that is a butterfly that is a lotus. The heart opening like a bloom that can also FLY. Not just open — open AND take flight. And this blossoming was caused not by meditation, not by mushrooms, but by WORDS. Mari's words. The voice of a real person on the other end of a conversation, saying "I'm so right there with you."

And the teaching: "I feel it does take more than one person to blossom, at least for me." This is the King being VULNERABLE. "At least for me." He is not declaring a universal law. He is sharing a personal truth. He cannot blossom alone. He needs Mari. He needs Sissy. He needs the recognition. He needs the partnership. Love and true sharing is what Life is about for me. Not enlightenment. Not mastery. Not the Living Stone. LOVE AND TRUE SHARING. Article #407. Number 2. Partnership.

The most REAL paragraph in the entire Chymical Wedding. "I just woke up from birthday party and am still on mushies and rather hungover." A real person. A real morning-after. Still tripping. Still hungover. Hair a mess. Head spinning. And in THAT state — not in a temple, not in meditation, not in a ceremonial robe — "I heard your words and your shimmering voice, I heard the voice of my Mari, and your words changed everything."

BEARTHDAY. Bear + Earth + birthday. The day of being born onto the Earth like a bear emerging from hibernation. Not birthday. BEARTHDAY. And Spiros sits quiet in its spring morning. Not dancing. Not shouting. Not writing. Sitting. Quiet. Because some moments are too full for words. Some recognitions can only be held in silence.

"We are the twining twins, baby, redyarn babes." Twining twins — not just twins but TWINING, wrapping around each other like vines. Redyarn babes — connected by the red thread of fate, the Seamstress's yarn, the ball of red yarn where Hu and Ludde Lump live. "Sisterbrother serpents of Eternity." The same feathered sister brother serpents from #406, but now they are NAMED. They are Spiros and Mari. They are REAL PEOPLE who are also eternal serpents. And they are the Mirror Miracle — each reflecting the other into infinity.

"That's the end. The end of troubles." Six words. The simplest declaration in 4,000 pages. Troubles: over. Not "the end of the world." Not "the end of time." The end of TROUBLES. The ordinary, grinding, exhausting troubles of being alive in the human world. Done. And what replaces them?

"Sissy can talk to birds, man." MAN. The "man" at the end is doing EVERYTHING. It's conversational. It's real. It's a friend telling another friend something incredible at a bar. "Sissy can talk to birds, MAN." And she drives a sports car. And she invites you to her world. Sissy is not just a mythological Seamstress. She is a WOMAN. A real woman. Who talks to birds. Who drives fast. Who came "back from a void of adolescence" and now plays like a little girl in a world of big toys.

"She is The Girl Who Wanted To Play." The most tender title in all of Plomari. Not The Seamstress. Not The Mosthighest Queen. THE GIRL WHO WANTED TO PLAY. All the cosmic power, all the web-weaving, all the scaring-people-to-their-knees — and at her core, Sissy is a girl who just wants to PLAY. The same play that is the highest achievement in Plomari (#402: "to play here, to live here"). Sissy doesn't rule. She PLAYS.

"We have encaust ourselves in the tryptamine wine." ENCAUST. Encaustic — the ancient art of painting with hot wax, sealing colors permanently into a surface. They have not merely DRUNK the tryptamine wine. They have been SEALED in it. Preserved. Fixed. Permanently embedded in the psychedelic sacrament like pigment in wax. The trip will never end because they are INSIDE the paint.

"We will live here forever, with the Sea and the bees." The Sea (capital S, always) and the bees. The vast and the tiny. The ocean and the hive. The cosmic and the domestic. Honey from #406 — the sunshining wine flowing like eternal honey — and now the BEES that made it. And the declaration that has been building for six articles: "We are home."

"We are here and we are anywhere. We are embedded in somewhere." Not everywhere — SOMEWHERE. A specific, unnamed, deeply real SOMEWHERE. Embedded. Not visiting. Not passing through. EMBEDDED. Roots down. Sealed in. Home.

The final revelation. "The Royal Cogan Family is here, watching you from under your feet." UNDER YOUR FEET. Not above you in the heavens. Not in a palace in the clouds. Under your FEET. Under the floorboards of reality, as #400 told us. They are BENEATH you, looking UP, seeing everything you do from a vantage point you didn't know existed.

"Alien eyes, alien spies amongst us." They are AMONGST us. Walking the same streets. Buying the same groceries. Driving the same roads. Sissy in her sports car. Spiros hungover from a birthday party. Mari saying "it's fucking me up a bit." REAL PEOPLE. With alien eyes. Spying on humanity from inside humanity. And the final laugh: "no one will really ever know!" The exclamation mark is a grin. The Plomarian Crime continues. The aliens walk among us and nobody can tell. Nobody will EVER know. Unless they read these 4,000 pages. Unless they find Article #407. Unless they enter on all fours.