Lotus position, 6:00 a.m., tinges of gold sunlight warm the horizon. From the plow position he evolves into salutation to the sun. For twelve years he has been doing the morning yoga ritual, gradually developing the control necessary to slow his heart rate and breathing to almost nil. The maelstrom of the megalopolis in which he resides boils around him; and yet he is serene. Heart singing with a spirituality devoid of desire, anger and pain, an exceptional man in the midst of rampant material excess and hordes of media-stultified androids.

Inside the man's personal ecosystem there gestated a life force other than his own. A star system revolving around twin suns, smoldering energies of tranquil power. The cosmos internal and infinite in its mysteries lay, vastness upon infinite vastness, a consciousness roaming from its corporeal body.

Consuming only substances that fall naturally from their growing matrix, he has eaten solely figs and walnuts for the last eleven years. Every organ in the body tuned and vibrant, an alimentary canal pristine and free of blockage. Counterpoint to the average American colon which is brimful with up to fourteen pounds of putrescent, impacted fecal matter -- resultant from the intake of denatured, lifeless food products and three daily meat meals.

And in his soul he knew the time had arrived. The time of regeneration and ablution was nigh upon him, domicile no more than a sanctuary for the shrine lying within. A basin girded with clay hand-harvested from the banks of the upper Ganges by his guru Swami Saatchadananda, full with water from the same, and strewn with fresh gardenias, awaits him. Submersing himself to the waist, he sinks back into the healing fluid and falls into deep meditation, ambrosial eructations bubbling to the surface of the holy water. In rhythm with the universal being comes a mantra, and from that exalted place emerged a proto-cosmic force four weeks in gestation -- a perfect, unbroken bowel movement four-and-a-half feet in length, with the girth of a reticulated python and a radiant green-orange aura.

Vessel spent and vacant, the man's bodily functions slowed as he fell into a blissful, trance-like state from which he would not emerge until thirty-six hours hence. Yet, inside the confines of his room, the genesis of a galaxy was beginning. Glowing feces whirled around the ceiling in a vortex, blowing out the walls of the apartment and rising swiftly through the layers of the Earth's contaminated atmosphere. The Nirvana Matter gaining mass and energy on its journey to becoming a universe of peace, love, and harmony, drawing ever away from the abominable taint of God's misbegotten ant-farm of hate and woe.