Worn by sand and waves, so heavy and cold—filled with some sloshing, alien ichor—Do you remember the taste?

I do.

Cinnamon and frankincense and rage: a deeply disquieting drop of poison: we drained the whole bottle, though it took an age. And now, so many centuries later, I still feel that queer concoction in my veins and behind my eyes, pulsing and humming with a foreign fire, a chilling flow of brimstone and gall and nameless, smarting loathing. I have lived so horribly long and so dreadfully alone since that evening on the shore: when we drank of the mind of God and held each other but for a moment, vomiting memory and violence, one soul to another, in the writhing light in each other’s eyes. Now I am no longer flesh; and you, meager meat of the whirling worm. 

But we will meet again, and that henbane liquor will set us ablaze once more.