[Intro] You aren't yourself. Not metaphor. Not crisis. Just... census. Thirty-seven trillion cells and most of them aren't even yours, so who exactly signed the lease on this breathing architecture? [Hook] What do they name the wilderness one names oneself? How many kingdoms rise and fall in echoes of a breath? What do they name the wilderness one names oneself? A moment to one, a thousand generational felt depth. [Verse 1. The Jungle] To the pathogen at the gate, self's a jungle full of tigers, macrophage patrols like predators, antibodies biting vipers. Hostile canopy, every surface armed with chemical fire, T-cells hunting through the understory, neutrophils in the mire. They send scouts and the scouts don't return, immune system earned its place through four billion years of churn. One don't feel the war, one yawn, stretch, dulled through scroll. Underneath your fingernail a thousand soldiers foot patrol. skin's a fortress wall that's not breached without a siege, your mucus membrane moats provide invaders no reprieve. But one. one thinks about dinner, subtly unaware that a jungle full of tigers just won a war beneath your hair. [Hook] What do they name the wilderness one names oneself? How many seasons cycle, orchard harvests returned? What do they name the wilderness one names oneself? One calls it Monday. It's everything they've learned. [Verse 2. The Orchard] Now shift the lens, gut flora, different view entirely, to lactobacillus a warm orchard ripening divinely. Perpetual bounty, every meal a monsoon season, fibre raining down like fruit, they feast without a reason. Twenty minutes, generation. Born, divide, and done. A thousand lineages lived and died before lunch is finished at one. They don't do names. They don't know names exist. But they shape moods, cravings, and serotonin's gentle fist. Ninety percent of serotonin, garden-grown below, so enlighten, when peace is felt , whose feeling does one know? The orchard votes before the farmer thinks they chose, gut flora pulling strings on the puppet that they compose. [Verse 3. The Fortress] Eyelash mites, Demodex, ride the summit of a forest face, a walking fortress, mountaintop pasture, slow-motion grazing space. They're born in follicles, they'll dedicate to die there too, entire civilisations in the time it takes to blink, snapshot right through. No eyes, no mouth for food, they drink oil pores release, sebum is their ocean, dead skin cells the rotting feast. To them, a blink's an earthquake, a tear's a flash flood, the landscape shifts with every expression, and still they love the crud. They've been here since before monkey left the trees, co-evolved, embedded, facing ancient land and seas. What do they name this mountain range? What myths do mites compose? autobiography's irrelevant to the continent under nose. [Bridge. The Census] So take the census: who be one? Thirty-seven trillion human cells, sure, that's the frame. But thirty-nine trillion bacteria call you home, one for some, the wilderness was never yours to name. More bacterial genes than human ones express, more microbial decisions than conscious mind will guess. craving aren't yours. mood be co-composed. The self's a press conference where the speaker is deposed. [Hook] What do they name the wilderness one names oneself? How many kingdoms rise and fall beneath your skin? What do they name the wilderness one names oneself? A jungle, an orchard, and a fortress, all within. [Verse 4.The Hybrid] The edbehere thesis: mushroom-cephalopod, hybrid soul, not metaphor, diagnosis. You were never one thing whole. Theseus shipped identity, every plank replaced and worn, but the planks were never yours, the ship was coral-born. Agency's a story that the biome tells itself, the "I" a convenient fiction on a committee's crumbling shelf. Not horror. Not despair. Just the honest audit, bare: a co-designed walking universe that learned to comb its hair. So when I say "Ed, be here", "here" is wider than you think. Here is jungle, orchard, fortress, here is every missing link. Here is thirty-seven trillion voices voting without sound, here is every generation that have taken us to now [Outro] One not oneself. One become better. A wilderness that learned to co-write a letter. What do they name one? ...None... landscape, background, scene clear Ed. be. here. ```
