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June 14, 2001
We have a local cult, too--the International Headquarters for the Temple of Eck is just down the road from Paisley Park. A golden pyramid plunked down in the middle of acres and acres of pristine prairies. I pass it on the way home from work and when the sun shines at just the right angle, I cannot breathe. All of it--grass leaves; doubt, golden; the taste of light, pineapple; every day I have ever loved, every day that love was lost--hangs, suspended, until I remember the road, remember my motion, and swerve until the two collide, again.