His sensitivity presses against the inner drum of his skin. Stretches. And feelings, like fuzzy worms in waxy paper bags, heighten the frequency of his electric current–his synapses.
The world he sees bends in an ecliptic motion and time slows to a stop. Infinity. Light and darkness split like an atomic bomb and he feels the entirety of the air like he knows the range of his whole body. The water in his blood is what keeps the salt in the oceans, the flake of dust on the hood of a car.
He sees the world in a cool eternity, another kind of warm glossiness such as the glazed doughnut crust after the kiln or the frosty January threads of Arachne. No longer does he care if he is naked for he knows everyone is naked, everyone is born and dead, alive and changing. Before him is an intangible realm beyond the mind, but between the mind and the body.
And he could sing, floating on a sling of angel hairs, but to sing would shatter the fluidity of his vision. The transcendence. So he steps beyond the voids of our thinking, like skipping over puddles on the sidewalk. He steps where we all meet–the giant canvas in the sky that holds everything, but erases all at once.
The field of his vision is limitless, yet concentrated enough to be focused.
He drifts…a puff of cotton gliding through the intangible realm.