The fantastically silly sensation of self-birth: liberation into bizarre brilliance. To be, and to be brutally, yes, but to -be-, meaning, humor beyond pretension, courage beyond boredom, vigilance beyond apathy, virility beyond pleasure. To sculpt the world as silly putty in one’s fleshy fingers, to manifest in all spiritedness a cinematic scope of scenery, to be filled to the brim by an ontological tango with reality, devoid of deities but not without dreams, drama of men. To be, and to be violently, hilariously, as if for the first time, but surely not in innocence; passive guilt transmogrified into ornate adornment, bombastic humility, fitful embrace, unclean purity. To jump together all at once, reality springboarding in asymmetrical arcs, self and world bouncing and juggling, knocking their sconces together, colorful collision of corpuses. To sleep, perchance to dream, perchance to -be-. Ah! There’s the rub: earthen limbs rubbing up against one another, sound rubbing up against my eardrums, rivulets of sweat cascading down my skin, scrumptious burger with dry Cajun rub, skin and soil in metabolic movement. To be, not to be, yes to be: a splendid melodrama of good faith and good fun!