the past is reduced to a taste, post-digestive effect, a puff of smoke. the future is like too much time behind a telescope staring at the night sky. am I just experiencing those contrivances, the befores and afters, through the looking glass of the present? isn't it possible that I *can't* be anywhere but where I am, even though the contents of my mind might convince me otherwise?
it's all a dream, everything is a dream.
"can you cultivate joy? joy without external cause?"
the dervish must whirl, the potter, fire up the kiln, and so must I be on a path of such inevitability.
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