back on track, jack. you gotta cut all that slack and attack the flack that keeps shredding you, boy. find the joy in the mystic toys the universe birthed to surprise you, to hone you, to keen you into a body built from stardust. you must trust me thusly: you are, and are not, special, that is the mystery i see in fortunes free falling around you and me. you, unique representative of particular consciousness, a mess of chemical stress, invested in by billions of bilious and ebullient bacteria biding their time in your gut. and yet, you strut, like the cock of the walk. we balk at this, because we sense you miss the grand gesture of humanity–that we are freely similar beings, wholly one and wholly all, comprised of vice and venison strips, coagulated amid red blood and pink meat wrapped around bone and tied with sinew. our bodies a mold, our consciousness boldly separate, prepped to let thoughts flow through tongue and cheek, deliberately sneaking in nuggets of wisdom. we are holding cells of independent thought, and what thought it can be, a sea of free will, you and me independently conjuring similar images in our divided minds. is that not worth your awe? you saw how complex and how vexed you were at the myriad aspects of the universe. it’s tough. but you’re tougher, rougher than the coarse stuff your ancestors tread over to bear your consciousness into the world. you’re stardust, and meat, and light on your feet, and soon you’ll be weekly out dancing in the street.