Fuck It

You don't need epiph'nies,
One day after the next,
To return to that place where you realized,
Reality's context,

That of a provider of stimulus,
That our body translates,
Providing the sights and sounds and feelings,
The mater'als we use to cogitate.

For sure it all needs to be clothed for sense,
So's to communicate,
But the point is to return to that place,
Where instincts are innate,

To guide your moves,
In this fucked up cosmos,
Then give it a rinse through your perspective,
So's to translate that for those you hold close.