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The crowd gathered as the sunset over the stones, and sat politely and waited for the dawn. June 20th 1899. There was music, a strange but fair string quartet of ladies playing Holst’s “The Planets”. There had been hawks in the wind in the twilight, looking for titbits from the picnics.

Stonehenge. Where antiquarians gathered in the sounds of the pipes of pan.

3AM. Now the 21st. Just before twilight began to paint the eyelid of the horizon. There was a fuzzy crack of lightning, and a flash of blue radiation washed out over the crowd like Thor had hit his hammer.

They ooohed. They ahhhed. They swallowed their laundunum for the sunrise and looked for their gods.

And sitting atop one of the triptychs within his Poincare machine, Aristophanes Brown and the moon-amuck chuckled and hooo-eeh-hoo’d their little heads off, before repeating the process as they headed back to London

Because Ari has been under neglect.

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