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I salute you, wittering blatherskites! Last month we left you dancing in a fit of divine madness as you escaped from your imprisonment in a desolate tomb on the road to Athens where you had been left by a would-be assassin turned turncoat from the Corinthian Popular Army of which you are the head. I hope that's clear. I think it's in English. It may even be grammatically correct in the main.
So, let us proceed with the path that lies before us rather than contemplate the world we've left behind. Tourists shriek and gesticulate at the capering vision of saintly madness they see before them. The capering vision (that's you) shrieks and gesticulates in return both affrighted and affronted by this ruckus on the road to Athens. You rail at the gawking strangers, resenting their attention. The tour guide begins to tell the long and complicated story of your rise to sainthood, very loudly in order to mask the noisy abuse you are shouting. So fearful are the tourists of this drooling divine they see before them (you again), they begin to throw money in the hope of soothing the savage breast (or saint, in this instance).
Great gods alive and dead, little loonies! This is a startling development indeed. Seeing you now possess coin of the realm for no more than raving and capering like a lunatic (your usual demeanour), your fortune could be made if you play your cards right. There are of course astrological influences causing all of this but I can't be bothered recounting them. Anyway, by the New Moon in miserable Capricorn, you give up your dreams of liberation for Corinth (St Paul scared you with that bit about the Epistles anyway) and go into business as a mad saint, a profession for which even I must admit you may be well equipped.
At first you stay close to the tomb but find that business is slow. Thus, as the great Sol Invicti moves into idiot Aquarius and your solar third house, you set out for Athens. Once there, you wander the streets, ranting and raving. Beggars and children gather at the hem of your rancid and ragged garments, praising the name of the St Archer of the Tomb! Come the Full Moon in Leo, crowds flock to the marketplace where you dance the crazy dance of a drooling sainted lunatic.
But by my little brown bottle, what's this! Mischievous Mercury conjoins in unseemly fashion with cranky Chiron and then moves into idiot Aquarius. Suddenly, little nitwit types, as if the insane gods have decreed it to further darken the skies of an already benighted universe, you begin to preach an inspired if somewhat garbled sermon of manic and madcap frenzy. Great strutting peacocks and holy ghosts! You burn with evangelical fire! You glow with apostolic light! You spew forth the words of Heaven here on earth! You have become the mad saint that tourists, children and beggars thought you to be!
Will you go on to found a new religion and save the world? Gods, I'm unwell. I can hear a little brown bottle calling my name. I must answer. Click here next time to see what happens next!
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