And you can't know it, because to know it is to be it, and to be it is to not be you.

Ego like bile over taste buds. Get it out or hold it in. It's the suspension will drive you nuts, churn your gut.

How nice would it be to just drop from the tree, fall from forking branches a ripened fruit thudding your weight to earth without distraction, without option—thrust to ground under gravity's current to be gathered up and eaten or left there to decay and deposit that seed from the core of your being into the little plot of your death, lush ring of your composted fertilizing flesh.

But finally, once in an age, there is a blink. And in that blink, you can be. And in that blink, I can be.