Boredom is only the inability to imagine correctly, lazy mindedness. Even a toad whose life spent low in boughs and slime imagines correctly not needing to know its place in the ethereal ecosystem of digastric sentience—the twin plane of fleshy beasts connected by gravity but divided by language—to use its souleye to unlock imaginations, fantasies, hubristic performances of corpuscular deviance, the magic of the internal spheres elliptically dancing among the stars outside and the invisible waltz of gravity gripping every particle in the cosmic equation. Only the stubborn ignorance of humans evades recognizing and acknowledging the incomprehensible landscape of dimensional relativity, universes themselves atoms in the infinite molecular expansion of the supra-supernal diaphragm resisted by boxy minds anchored fast to their memory-flesh. If I cannot explain it then it doesn't exist. Right? Free the soul and the mind will follow—dice does not play god—wonderfully though even a lemming, pitiful misplaced tectonic orphan that it is, returns seeking its ancestral breedseat—that having split and drifted beyond leap range exists only in its genomic recollection—to plunge headlong into the blissful abyss of sainthood.