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they sat in a room in a mud house dried by southern suns or so they thought. but it was one of those rooms where vision was restricted, atrophied, and even the heat of mingled breath close to the face was not possible. she said that she couldn't see much down the road. instead of listening, he looked down upon his Self from above, like the moon, somewhere else in the room, it was evening, and the Blood of Christ mountains moved under the fixed stars. she was there, he was somewhere else, or at least that what it seemed. to a third person, though there wasn't an Other in the room, it seemed that they were both there. or maybe all three were alone, in separate rooms. wondering which door to open, hoping that they would find the Other. it was all too much. sensual presence limited to a 60 cycle drone in the ear. so he slept near the sea. sleeping was easier. his soul could drift. seaweed, underwater, storm breakers, a flush of bubbles, millions of small silver worlds. eyes closed. and still they saw. they saw the conditions of all things around and the entire rushing froth of the universe.
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site index (very
under construction)
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try it... you might
find something relevant, you might not. but then again, what
is relevancy? eyes wide open, all is relevant. eyes closed
tight, not much is gained...
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try it... you might
find something relevant, you might not. but then again, what
is relevancy? eyes wide open, all is relevant. eyes closed
tight, not much is gained...
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it is vain to dream of a wildness distant from ourselves. there is none such. it is a bog in our brains and bowels, the primitive vigor of nature in us, that inspires that dream. I shall never find in the wilds of Labrador any greater wildness than in some recess of Concord, i.e., than I import in to it.
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-- Henry David Thoreau
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