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The Story
The water here is built out of texture.
It never reaches for the conventional sea. Cucumber arrives as crisp flesh, verjus as plain acidity, algae as the vegetal salinity of weed left on a tideline. Morning dew sits on the moss-covered stone.
Then the green turns sharp. Angelica and galbanum have the sap of a stem snapped in half, something wild and close to bitter running under all that transparency. Frankincense cuts through with a cool resinous dryness and moves it off the water and onto the ground. Vetiver roots it there. Driftwood is weathered and already ashore. What began clear ends up damp and mineral, in the particular clarity of the first hours of the day. A shoreline does the same once the mist lifts.
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