My arms are infinite extensions of the universe within my breath. My eyes smudged telescopic kaleidoscopes tinted with the shade of reality. My lungs are pretending to move with the harmony of Om and the balance of stars. Stars. Stars that often imagine themselves as warriors and bears, clocking in infinite time for the job of  "Inspiration", contractual every few million years. And then they rotate, revolve, imitate and dissipate into new configurations of dead lights. And over a backdrop of pitch black voids of offices after hours, stars are the friendly, warm glowing windows at the next block, in heavy rains. Stars will remain though our own species retains our blood-lust for fellow brothers and sisters and Gaia. Stars that can only be seen through infinite extensions of vision, and only reached by the arms that strive to thrive in kaleidoscope waters viewed from smudged telescopes.