This motion we call thought, this loosely bound clutter is what we perceive as I although I is much like the Portugese-man-of-war: a colony of animals that have come together because of an inflatable pink sac: the body.
Our body is only a clear container in which thoughts clump together occasionally and then float on. And yet we are puzzled that we lack consistency.
A paradox: people walk upon the waters of their conviction and it holds beneath them.