We don’t need to do anything, it’s happening; it’s doing us.
Find an inclined anything and carry a dense anything upward and hurl. Once or many but breathless not.
Fly somewhere in maximal fashion but with the laughing spirit of the great nonsense carrying you along.
Lay somewhere like a fucking corpse, like it’s the dirtiest, most playfully engaging repose ever, and feel the earth running through “you”, the energy of life itself beating warmly the heart of things, the wavy flow of the ground of being breathing its thisery through your nose; but otherwise eerily motionless.
Leap over something because it’s in you to do so. Maybe find subsequent leaping possibilities.
Climb or brachiate somewhere, further reposing, while also tapping into the oddly wonderful monkey in us all as we ride the starry planet ship beyond.
Look at each other, at things, for a second or 669, in the realization that tonight when you shut your eyes you may never wake up.
A Butter Disclaimer:
The above spiritivi fucko web of zazzeria, oh levee damn you and busteth breaketh open the flow over and out into the lands of jazzy wonders that maybe you can taste now that you're free into the weather of being, seems to be highly relevant to a good life, so far as its a life of elemental humanness that you desire (I mean: a life of animal spunk and deliciously "formed" humanness, of the ability to exhibit energy and power). Enjoy this showing from time to time, wandering through these several movement patterns that make living fun, but don't get hurt; and if you do get hurt, it's not my fault for writing a bunch of words about playing and doing stuff. Likewise if you ride waters of exhilaration or of general meditative quality, it's the life running through you that I think ought to get the cred. Or banish to hell excitement and flavor altogether while sitting around in your own squalor, I don't care.