— You are a blowfish.
— A blowfish. Think about it. Small in stature, not swift, not cunning. Easy prey for predators... but the blowfish has a secret weapon... doesn't he? Doesn't he? What does the blowfish do, Jesse? What does the blowfish do?
— I don't even know...
— The blowfish puffs up. The blowfish puffs himself up four, five times larger than normal. And why? Why does he do that? So that it makes him intimidating, that's why. Intimidating. So that the other scarier fish are scared off. And that's you. You are a blowfish. You see, it's just all an illusion. You see, it's nothing but air. Now who messes with the blowfish, Jesse?
He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf--saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant-bodied flies, the grey spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon flies' wings, the strokes of the water-spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat--all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the water.