If mania is a crime of function, illusions of nirvana must be the common conclusion of beholders who reside in chains of envy and suffer from selective blindness imposed upon the soul by societal laws of mental conformity; outsider empathy for the manic person conditions a birthday gift of spiderman underwear that serves not to understand real beauty but instead to fashion a reverse pathology––to deconstruct the abnormality––to dismantle its presence entirely––to kill off the quaggas living among the zebras––to cleanse the human condition of its variance with philosophical mind control, and to define objective standards of health upon canonization of some exclusionary prerequisites. Mania seems to me exciting. Mania must be profound like acid. Mania must be a ride. Mania must be the presentation of frictionless flow. Mania is a mode of soul, wherein passage to prosperity requires a very cheap toll, me thinks. Mania develops upon intoxication of the levy mechanism in the mind which quotas the salience of gratitude in active perceptions. Mania is neurochemical systematic alchemy of mood ascension whereby happiness registers occupation in bold frontiers of pinnacle planes otherwise reserved for heavy drug use, sex, slumber, and revelations of fantastic news. Mania is organic euphoria, minus the contractual conditions of a mind altering drug. Mania is a Godsend reserved for the blessed. Mania presents bipolar people with a double edged sword, but if a balance between highs and lows can be tamed upon a roller coaster’s track, the result shall be emotional wisdom.