I'm feeling nervous. My body is a vessel: creaking, oscillating with the throes of the manic depressive ocean- with each torrent bringing me farther away from land; my body is a star: expanding at the rate of knowledge, burning brightly, white light/ white heat upon my mind. My body belongs to the universe- a constant becoming, becoming constant to the human fabric of life; nature and the universe- everything in existance is beating, breathing as one. And I as it's heart. Being not the heart, but one individual in the formation of. Finnegan's Wake is best read in an Irish accent, with slurred speech- like the kind found in the afterhours of the dreariest of pubs where people drink to forget, to numb, to blind. Life is the Sun. Life is the Universe. My soul- it's flower, blooming in perennial youth to the beating constant; with each dawning dawn dawning to florally vulgar displays of red, orange and yellow- each being somewhat of a celestial conductor, its' leads- the stars, with the planets- its' rhythm.