Purpose-made, our skull is the only place wherein consciousness awakes, exercises, changes, knows, and rests. Round and hard like the Earth it mimics, alone our skull is some special planet, though for some, seen one seen them all. Oceanic fertility is our truth, every month’s January when we wake from sleep, our senses returning to duty, renewed and amazed; our skull, the vital carrier. Our dreams are oceanic, unconscious head drifting out into depths of ancient existence. Day is wakeful relief from such soup. Tide out, watchful behind two perfect sockets, we enjoy the littoral of everything sun keeps alive.