Bottom line, your skin is a bag. It’s the best bag you’ll ever get though, and so you need a pattern for it. You need to sew your bag up through iterative spacetime with a stitched pattern that includes all sorts of potions and lotions and ointments and waters and spaces and conflagrations. The “routine” (as mortals and men once knew it) is of course, a complex weave through the warp of time, and without the proper needles & thread, you will sew up your chronistic kaleidoscope organ bag all wrong.
To generate an impulse & invite events within your flesh-realm, first position yourself in a bright room before a mirror. Shut your eyes and imagine what you are, underneath the stifling cascade of photons and wavelengths and situations around you. Consider that you are here and that all warm moments near grasses and all sharp fears are folded up around you in a blossoming timeline touching at all the corners. Know that your shape is something that can’t be seen, or drawn, or rendered in the same realm that you claim to exist in. You are stretching irrationally through a coruscated hallucination mediated by perceptive bands.
Raise a limb up, but keep your eyes closed. Can you feel your body, beyond the sense of brightness? A deep flash of waters and bones and density in some ancient arrangement of neurotic electricity? Consider the cauldron of your guts, handed in sopping droves down our genealogies, tied into the weave of acids and bacteria and body-weight and cells. You have felt these guts before, forever now at this point. They too bend around your flesh & are bound to similar expressions of acids and proteins. Smile and bare your fangs and teeth and air, but keep your eyes closed. Know nothing. Abandon your stories and words and protections. Curl yourself in the shape of a monster, but don’t take a peek. Run your tongue along your teeth and taste the silent satisfaction of success, the hedonistic presence that your cruel calcium earned through violence and iteration. Hail the causality skewered through your invisible multitudes, and dwell in the dark for as long as needed.
Open your eyes. Wait for the blur to subside. Notice the mirror, and the prison of photons you live in, mocking you at the surface of your wet, falsely perceptive eyeballs. Laugh at the thing in the mirror and say:
“That’s Not Me, That’s Just the Light Again!”