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Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre, the patron saint of all daguerreotypes, had perfected a technique using the philosophers’ mercury to generate coloured images upon the crystal tablets. The cumulonimbus clouds hugged the cool tops of the pluton—the one God recreated for her after she returned from a recent vacation in the highlands of the Nilgiri Hills in the Western Ghats of India.
Across the lake, up the slope, there is a stone church. Mad Joe Jehova is inside, ripping off Jorge Luis Borges—the patron saint of nocturnal storytellers—and his idea of the Book with the Infinite Spins.
Back to the church: it was once a stave church that some wild black-metal Norwegian burned down, only for it to be reborn in Heaven, brighter and stranger than before.
The two white hotels reflected in the lake are part of Heaven’s recycling program—waystations where souls arrive to rinse themselves clean before being reborn.
St. Christopher tries to keep hold of the child in the photo, but the baby keeps changing—first into a puppy, then into Bala Krishna—who promptly stuffs a wad of butter into the giant’s ear.