He self-references insults when he laughs them off; he absorbs them; becomes engrossed enough, that he who every time lets himself off easy prosecutes his soul, feigns denial, forges bliss, and un-becomes; dumps their lemonade on his head, wins super bowls every day. Usually, he finds it is enough. Not at all what he thinks, though perhaps why his thoughts become; whereupon his thoughts are drawn, consensual thought, that guides his judgement, may upon a paradigm shift, discredit the contents in books of facts. Unless his brain deceives him — unless he is insane — unless in all moments he may have room for god, and who is real, whom he fears; in his own idealist sense, his biology is divine, and may change the world, at least his frame of it. The only souls that may deceive him are those who cannot win.