Let us set the stage: my head is full of many piles of "shit." When dealing with the first pile of shit, I altered my attention onto another pile of shit and left the first pile to attenuate itself. The question is: what happens to the remainder of the first pile of shit? The pile ferments on its own serving up another mysterious effluent. Continuing on, I formed the habit of going from one pile to the next pile and never finishing any of the piles; the mystery is becoming more powerful because it is made up of piles of broken shit. My brain is shifting like the sands of lost deserts from the past, I am the "stench" composite of self. Well, what is a pile of shit other than another one of life's experiences? And the stage upon which life's experiences unfurls could be landscaped in a variety of settings, but 'should' be noted that to get along, the art of "suspending disbelief" is essential to understanding another point of view.