Words growing like fresh whiskers, no shave lasts forever. If I write long enough this beard might someday reach the floor.
November. Gray skies
The whisper of the winter
To come. Watching the heron
Wade in the cold, dark water.
Awareness is inherently pure like the empty sky. Stress, annoyance, and anger can temporarily occupy its space but can never pollute it.
Nothing we see or hear is perfect. But right there in the imperfection is perfect reality.
I am opposing a social order in which it is possible for one man who does absolutely nothing that is useful to amass a fortune, while millions of men and women who work all the days of their lives secure barely enough for a wretched existence.
All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land.