What are we, drawn into ourselves by chiseled time. Sketched into stone by self sustaining repetition aka conditioning, sometimes conscious and sometimes, I dunno, deep, unknowable, maybe geothermally leaked, carved into an impressive pattern, our body bed, space for the universe inside his image, supporting Niagara Falls effluvia through the persistence of a rivulet [tilt]
Overly deep, the madmen creep under the waves, poking never a head above, they drown without oxygen where there is no love.
Of awesome powers plenty, men to admire too few, he said "that's why I worship nature, but won't shake hands with you."
In fifteen minutes of not doing it only one reason stands reasonable enough: to kiss the missus, yes -- that's a good alternative to spewing this stuff.