On the surface of the sun, my reflection. The reflection was the sun. And the sun reassured me that everything is as it should be. We’re the world in the world, dreams without a start. I love with the depth of the sea. I have everything. It is no time to die; for although much of the anger generated by the moist forests of the nervous system, known better as the body, is a reaction to its conclusions, the unrelated garden still twists above the situated FLESH.