Streamofthought1

If a man were sipping water from a small stream in the desert and was attacked by a bear, they say that he died of thirst.
If water were always in our gills, and our lungs took in no fluid, could we still lift our wings to fly?
If you have cabins, I will have the trees, to sing sweetly above you, oh wild and free. To dare and gyro flex our tesseract mess, to integrate into this madness of a micro sense in a macro experience. I am one of these variants of ethereal immigrants. We duplicate this mess into your consciousness, with no judgments of assets because we polarized this. you don't have to be a witness you can erase this but thruth and good come with experience, you do not need to fall into dissonance. you are remaining with us until the sun is up and you must depart once again, we old friends. Insurrect with me ye bodily three, we must needs fill your ears with secrecy. our mystery is abundantly free. there is no time space restriction hindering ye, all the greatness about thy state is but a whim of a fool with a fate. what comes of late is the forward course, the wandering horse, and the muddy river going clean again. the escape and the plan, the wandering man. He who walks alone is bound to suffer, through hardship and toil until he rest at the place he comes to next, where the kind people text and go mostly about the basic context of our current sense-perception-grids, shore up your shipboards and stand on deck. your journey is long and would be easy to wreck. like Odysseus you will find your way yet, back to the home, to fight off the suitors. then to finally have a home with a tree growing out of the center.