Perhaps the female body, at point of conception, rimmed with oracular palace green like a trio of Wyland dolphins, spirals to the ocean floor for one night in Atlantis. The father, if he wakes in time, finds his way by the rivulets of her beads of air.
Maybe at the moment of birth, the daughter emerges from the churning sea as if awakened from a trance, draped with green flowers of Poseidonia. Her venturing out from the unsearchable spot relaxes brittle sponges until they are soft and supple, filling them with the beauty of the outcome.
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