I woke up each morning feeling I could love every single thing in the world. I was so alive my body couldn’t contain it all. The streets glowed beneath my gaze, autumn treetops puffing white mists of soul stuff. Bird song transmuted to a monastic chant: iloveyou, iloveyou, iloveyou. I could see the liveliness of all things, pluck the speck of black and wormy worth out of the vastness of every old young scared bold bored delighted preoccupied person in every traincar on every trainline in chicago newyork madrid mumbai shanghai. The speck was beautiful and beneath my gushing love it swelled and swelled like a chia seed, like the baddest bitch of the frog pond, like a viscous and huge thing, enough to satisfy me and any one, manna from my tender care, and in my megalomania I knew nothing could hurt me, I was unkillable, indestructible, undefiable. I swallowed the squirming throat-clot whole. After a week I woke up myself again. Who knows what happened, after that.