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My girlfriend is a goddess, though she is in need of some repair; her eyes are in fine condition, though—they’re black squares, set in blue.

That’s how I know she is a goddess, it’s in the literature if you care to look. She comes from Ireland—where there are castles in the air, made from glass; and the tuatha dé danann pass for mortals.

Of course, the world does not appreciate goddesses today—we are beyond all that, and that is why my goddess is in need of some repair.

Yet she has power enough that when I read about the Tree of Life in a book on kabbalah that I found, same day, above her bed, a Tree of Life pinned up on a gypsy sheet.

I’d never marry her, of course—you can’t marry a goddess. So I call her a whore and she likes it. Really, she’s my heteria—I’d never marry her, she already has two children, by a Hindu. It’s in the blood—to seek the Indo-Aryan tradition, Semitic Christers have obscured.

Still, she is my goddess—though she is in need of some repair.


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