There is a place deep inside, in the hollow solar plexus yellow. This place is aching and hot, twisting and swirling in a violent hurricane of anxious wait. It fills, desperately stretching under the pressure built of yearning, not for cooling relief but for the frenzied festival of human experience; to dance in the rain, to swim beside sea creatures of the ancients, to play by fire light, and to love. To love by default. For if you join the festivities, there is no earthly or heavenly way to keep love from exploding from every pore like a sound wave breaking barrier. A love this powerful comes from within the illusion of these skin walls upon our realization that there is no better time to feel truly at home than now. This love is our natural state of default, wherein every worldly problem or craving is crushed by the ultimate truth; that the only thing in this life that matters is the experience of our present unencumbered conscience.