Eggo rolls around. In his egg. Fear, his translucent shell. "It's just me. Rolling around." Strange things permeate his crust. They frighten him. Never lets on mind. "Meaningless!" He exclaims. Even
Dreams are just the contents of the day! And mind is matter. So you say. At which solid, inner theatre have you seen them play? The stage? The writers? The director? The clay?! It’s simple, lazy
It’s so hot in Kyoto; we can’t leave our house and explore much and the house isn’t even that cool... One meets one’s, When one, Lowers ones. This koan encompasses oneself and the
Comments