The Beetle's Body Is Your Mind

You focus intensely on the beetle. Your consciousness penetrates through its desicated remains. You blow into your hand, and the beetle morfs into a luminous green moth that flits erratically up into the sky. Music starts to fill the silence of the void. It's vast, cheery and delicate, delightfully fast,. deliciously licate, ethereal, like something from a fairy tale. But you're conscious that there is no piano. Where is it all coming from? And who's playing? There are no sound waves travelling to your ears. You have no ears. You are too conscious for ears. I am magining myself. I am whatever i conceive myself to