this breath breathing

What do I know about the mystery I am? I do not, can not comprehend this breath breathing, generally do not attend to it at all, taking it for granted, as I go about the more important work of thinking and writing and talking and walking and sitting and shitting and eating and drinking and laughing and sighing and scratching itches and wearing britches and listening and comprehending and so on, just one thing after another -- which this breath breathing carries around and supports as if it is nothing, nothing at all -- and all this stuff thinking it is so important with its melodramas and dilemmas -- these self-absorbed barnacles clinging to the ship of breath -- parasites living off an unseen host.

And when this breath, this breathing stops, the long last exhale, what then? What will the parasites do? Where will they go when they reach their ex-spire-ation date? To rid himself of fleas, the fox takes a small stick in his mouth and sinks slowly into the water of the river until only the stick is seen, floating downstream with all its fleas. Ah! Blessed relief!