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to my left. It was a shimmering ornament of intense white light
tinged with the pale gold of Champagne, a froth of highly
charged atoms expanding through space.
'Champagne Supernova…' sang the lyrics of the song playing
in my ears.
The name was perfect.
'You are my Champagne Supernova,' I said aloud to the sun.
'Don't call me that,' it snapped back, the voice clear and
distinct in my head.
The sun was too majestic to be given nicknames.
'Nicknames suggest familiarity,' it emphasised haughtily.
I tried to explain that the nickname was a mark of affection,
of gratitude, that the name implied beauty and awe - but the
sun was not to be persuaded. Regardless, I knew that, from
now on, I would always think of the sun as my magnificent
Champagne Supernova.
'I can hear your thoughts,' blazed the voice of the sun in my
head, unamused.
'But it's such a pity,' I protested. 'It's a great name.'
I blinked upward at the intense light before being struck with
the sudden realisation that I was talking to the sun. What was
worse, it was talking back. I could distinctly hear its words in
my head. Was I going mad?
I didn't feel insane - but then I assume nobody does.
How could I know for sure? I recalled the warning of my
friend at the Royal Geographical Society that those who
set out alone came back 'changed', and my worries that the
solitude in Antarctica might leave me a little odd. The worst
outcome I could envision was that, while others were aware
I had become slightly strange, I would be oblivious to my
own eccentricity.
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