The definite impression of a gleeful little dance.
*Who am I? Who are any of us, really? We are specs of dust, floating through the cosmos, my bristly, wing-ed friend. We are the firing of a synapse in the brain of some as-yet-unseen genius.*
A true chuckle, trailing off at the end as the feeling of "This dude is definitely not right in the head" increases.
*We are, for all intents and purposes, the shit molecules exiting an anus in the universe's nastiest, stinkiest fart.*