I have seen the skies, felt the earth and swum the waters, rivers and seas. Beyond that, there is only incompleteness.

We exist as silence within silence. Any interjection is mere theatre, a fool’ s dance on the edge of a precipice. The Piper plays the tune and the storm rages.

The cards are dealt. The table is empty. All things must pass, but see it as you will, the immovable remains unmoved. We are born to presence and therein we exist.

All things must pass as stasis. There can be no separation. There is no other ‘way’.

From stardust to the great mountains of mind. Beware the avalanches.

From nowhere came that to nowhere went. Ony this incredible moment. Bless.

The theatre of 'being' exists a long way apart from its intrinsic and innate nature. Sickness, both physical and mental, exploits the gap between the two.

In celebration of the ethereal, a tiny cloud settles on the electricity cables alongside a couple of cooing turtle doves. The threesome is a twosome is a onesome. From this angle, there is no return.

Only in the great undoing will it be done. Malaise, be it of mind or body, is a separate entity. Absorption is the first step towards a true healing. Dig we the way that the dusts might fly.

To absorb is to deflect, and so the ‘mighty’ will be taken to account that the ‘meek’ may inherit the earth that is rightly theirs. Amen.

To pursue life is to belie it. We, the incomparable, hold only to shadow. See, ‘tis a dawn absolute, herein and hereafter.

To create mystery of the incomprehensible (all that is) is to declare false gods; the blasphemy of definition.

Not in the seeing, but in the knowing. I am thou as thou art I. Peace.

And then, in clear sight, the great emptiness which contains all things, yet never would claim to know them. Such simple a truth, yet how we complex and confound it, how we juggle oceans to deny the drowning. Tides will turn.

There is no this nor that, only a silent emptiness into which we weave our singular conceits. The doing is in the done.

In the beginning there was nothing at all. What's changed?

Knowledge is second-hand cant, a defensive layer of conceits worn as an armour against the free-flowing, all-devouring beauties of love (call it wisdom). Come now, we are oceanic in our majesty; the tides will turn.

We think therefore we are, therefore, we come to be thinking that we are something that truly we are not. Are we really so pitifully small?

Accept and digest the silent emptiness of being. It is there that we belong eternal. By any other name, it is immortality. There is no self to look to.

No government can serve you well. At best, it will only serve you right (P.R. 1984).