I am standing on the ground. I have interposed my feet between the surface of the planet and my face, and through the use of an intricate system of fluids and sensory apparatuses, I am holding my head in a place where I can smell both the ground and the sky.
The planet rotates, but imperceptibly to me, so I do not fall. The planet hurtles in its mad career about the sun, but I am unconcerned as rays from that self-same ball of radioactive fire warm the skin of my face even as the breeze moves my hair around and plucks at my clothing.
The ecosystem is a lover as selfish and peremptory as it is considerate and yielding. There is coitus everywhere, and we partake unconsciously and joyfully. Amid this colossal, splendid, immaculate fuck, the muscles in my abdomen circulate air through the spongy bags in my chest.
The time is right now, and it is correct. Magic will happen.
If I hold my head just so, and stand on this very spot here, and snap my fingers three times in a rhythm dictated by the needs of entropy, I will turn into a ’63 VW minibus. Hippies will come. They will be pure, idealized examples of their culture, couth and sophisticated. “Far out,” they’ll say, and climb inside me. The keys will be in me, of course, and they will use me to drive cross-country and tour some of the more popular American national parks, including, of course, Yellowstone.
The Earth moves; I hold it away with my feet, standing, while yonder the sun burns. I wait for the moment when I will turn into a minibus. Everything is the way it is supposed to be.