Sometimes, he could feel himself, somewhere at the top of his mouth, like he was in a room, looking through eyes, pushing on the buttons and pulling on the strings, making his machine twitch this way, and that. He could feel, the dead weight, of his skull as it moved and it chewed and blinked and it rotate, on its neckbone, in the cockpit he found himself born into. "Dying," he thought, "must be no different than needing a new car." Sometimes, he could see himself, somewhere, his "immaterial core," right through his eyes, right through his face, looking though skin and looking through bones. He could see, on the inside, he was as infinite as the universe was on the outside, in the ether, in the starlight that burns inside us all. And his eyes popped, and his jaw dropped, and for the first time he knew what we really are. Why should I die with tears in my eyes? I hope when it's time I've got the balls to die laughing. He's thinking as he's sinking in the quicksand of his consciousness, that I am you and you are me, the difference - just geography. I'm locked in here, you're locked in there, our eyes - our only enemies. This chasm only stretches inches, just let go and you'll see.