*image by Ben Harubin

 

After years of meditation in a hermetical monastery,
one man withdrew upon realizing that he already lived such a life inside himself.

One difference between a real mystic and a play timer is that a real one, at least,
won't pay for the privilege of sustaining his stupidity.

There's a strange land with but a single strange train to take you there,
and strange also is the fact that the train only runs on two types of fuel:
stark desperation, and absolute exasperation.
(By the way, there is another means of propulsion to that place,
but no one who talks knows what it is -- but let me assure you,
there is another one!)

"Okay," said one man, "let's try one more thing and see if I've got this straight:
First you know what you're doing, but don't know that you know;
then you think you know what you're doing, but you don't;
and then you know what you're doing again except this time you know that you know.
Now is that about once-and-for-all it?"

To work outside the home is idiocy.
Not just too cost intensive, but cost idiocy.

It was a strange time:
At the same instant the hangman achieved enlightenment,
the condemned man received a reprieve.

The Journey 'Cross The Desert:

You can stare at your feet,
you can stare at your hands,
you can stare at things close,
or off in the distance,
but when all's said and plotted,
and the caravan starts to move,
there is no such thing as "acceptable staring."

You can study all you like,
think all you want,
picture things as this or that,
imagine how you'll get there.

But there is no "way" to get there,
but there is no "way" to get there,
but there is no "way" to get there,
but there is no "way" to get there.

There was once a man who went in search of an empty box,
but who did so while carrying with him a stuffed one.