The waking senses enkindle dead matter; at dawn, the burning Sun sets Fire to the sleeping Earth. At night, we undergo submersion; the wild winds of the intellect become oceanic and flowing, rising and falling in worship of the gravitational rhythms of the Moon, lunar tides breathing with the ebb and flow of a sleeping beast who has shed the burdens of geometry, just another insignificant creeping thing in the swarming ecosystem of the mind, destined to dance and shout and glow in the confusion of existence without ever knowing why, until the preternatural Fire of day flares the eyes wide open to tend the world in isolation, remembering only that something was forgotten before forgetting even that, until next time. In that sense, life is just a dream that death forgets, leaving only a rusted human meat tree and the smell of dead perfume.