I expanded. Full-size, to my borders, and then on and out into the world and the system and the sphere and further. Infinite? Expand to there. I grew small, to try to catch a world. A green, a blue, a red, a yellow, a dark purple and down its empty heights to dark ground, here organic, here geometric, and in a room. A creature.
Back to Earth. Think of the room with the pondering fellow. Connect. Move out to another world, find a sequence operating in Self, and call it out. New. Go to the park. Seek a duck, or equivalent. Connect.
Back to Earth. Lonely Man Cries For Love And Has None. Ignore him. Find the Dreamer. Underneath a rock ledge in a sleeping bag, too close to the stars, shivering in false sleep, nowhere to go, nothing to do, but live. Connect.
The Planet Ten. Metal worlds, vibrant and made like molecules, full of strangers to you. The least known and most unpopular shall be revealed. Speak.
Retrograde Party Planet. No one knows all that happens here; it is blocked from the Original Recordings, cannot be seen, cannot be known, though it is said to be impossible, the the Original Recording must contain it -- maybe only as algorithmic static, fritzy spikes on the voice of the famous singer in the vinyl 78, that is where that world is found. Connect.
I am Earth. Deeper down, where the tunnel movies like to dwell, it resembles that not at all. Don't think dirt, think what it really is. It is a Sea. It rolls and slaps and roils and walks up crevices. It is afraid of outside. Cold. Now they are piping carbon tubes made by mechanical ants into the Sea, and drawing it out to be cooled for heat and smashed for heavy metals to power starcraft. What is water? Gasses. Do not trust water. It is a Silver Lie.
Shake them all. A thousand more. Connect.