I can feel Arran is fading. And yet it's time to come back.
The gentle air recalling the metal inn, where at dawn a man with muscles, tattoo and beard served a kind breakfast. The delicate animal in the wood, stopping and watching us. Flowers are indifferent and sweetly serious.
It's fading like every island when you go back to land and reality. Yet it's calling, while combing her hair, Scottish Loreley.
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