Atheists Should Stop Being Atheists


People have played massive co-op augmented reality games for ages. We call these religions. When everyone’s constantly falling dead off their camels for no apparent reason, it gets kind of sad. So people decided that they should have a storyline with interesting characters and that they themselves should have quests within that overarching meta-story. This is all well and good until some people want to eject the disk and play another game. This causes quite a bit of tantrums and stabbing.

Nowadays, there is less stabbing but there is another situation: some players discovered they could shut off the console and go explore outside. These weirdos appeared in China, Greece, and the Middle East, but made their most successful stand in Europe. We call their escape from the arcade, the Enlightenment. Everything we have is a product of the Enlightenment. You can find reeds and stones and honey in the outdoors, but the thing you can’t find is video game discs sprouting like fruits from the trees. This makes the gamers anxious and hesitant to come out for too long. Cosmic inflation, the fact that the Higgs Field bestows mass, and the percentage of dark matter are all indications of just how barren the trees are of shiny discs hanging from their branches. “What does any of this have to do with me?” they think.

But the outdoorsy jocks are just starting to travel the terrain and have heard the birds promise worlds far better than the childish ones back at the arcade. But they can’t make the journey alone. They need everyone on board to help them along the way. Including those that play the game called Judaism 2.0: God Kills Himself and those that can’t put down Islam: The Final Saga. After much pestering, some of them said, “Okay jocks, we’ll go with you, but we’re bringing our PSPs.” These are called moderates. They alternate between looking down at the fictional images on their screen and looking up at the wilderness. This generally works, and moderates contribute greatly but they often trip. [Moderates are generally less happy than people who feel very certain about their views, according to a study I saw.]

So as one of the athletic explorers, how pushy should you be? Clearly, we can’t stay in the arcade. If you have family trying to lock you in, you need to get some courage and face their deceit.

I have gradually chipped away at my mom’s Catholicism with pure reason to the point were I don’t even know if she’s Christian. Whereas when I was a ten-year-old, she dragged me to a room and cried hysterically that I was going to hell for not believing in God. It was a difficult relationship and a tense struggle but now she’s much more reasonable and easy-going. It’s almost impossible at first, but with patience and calm, reason really works. Arguing about this with your family will also make you grow as a person because it will get you thinking about what really matters. Unless you’re making a case for nihilism. Which would be unfortunate, to say the least.

In the case of other people, I think it’s largely a waste of time unless you have a public platform where you can be heard by many. I don’t have the energy to debate old ladies trying to sell me Jehova, and I don’t see the point. They are likely deluded or at least completely misinformed about many other things in the world also, and I’m not the person to teach them all about it…Considering it took me about a year of repetitive hard work to talk sense into a single person by reinforcing the neural pathways that we needed reinforced in her brain so that we could have a better relationship.

But if you have influence, by all means be a champion of reason, not an atheist. Being an atheist gives pride of place to Abrahamic theism over other metaphysical ideas about creation, of which there are many.

The Hindu concept of Brahman is a less anthropomorphic version of God. The concept of chaos as the source of all things is also a common theme throughout history, with explanations often employing metaphorical characters like Izanagi and Izanami in the Shinto religion of Japan.

One can also claim that there are two or three or four architects. Why should this Universe require an architect, but that architect require none? But calling yourself an ademigod-ist or ademitheist would sound ridiculous. Maybe it wouldn’t if Constantinople had converted to some now forgotten Gnostic sect.  We may not even have been a culture concerned with origin stories if Gautama had been born in Bethlehem (with a superstar P.R. team, of course) and Yeshua had been born in Lumbini.

We are all, in fact, apanguists and acoatlicuists but these terms have probably never been written except here because we are not hostage to paying them this kind of respect. If a lot of people started calling themselves Adaoists and started forming Adaoist organizations, the Dao would gain more public consciousness and Laozi would smile in his grave. The idea of a single, man-like mind as ultimate cause is probably more philosophically indefensible than many of the other creation myths. So it makes no sense that it should have such a high platform just because of what can be called historical accident.

It is also important to note that if you are living in America or another place with majority Christians, that they have hijacked the term theist for themselves when in fact they are a bizarre literary/metaphorical cult that is not humanly possible to take literally as theist. (Unlike the early Christian church which can indeed be considered theist because they didn’t call Jesus, ‘God.’) Muslims and Sikhs and Jews are theists. Many Christians will say things like, “God died on the cross for our sins.” A Muslim who literally believes that God is running the universe doesn’t understand this. His head breaks. Theism entails literal belief that there is an omnipotent entity running shit. You can’t say that this entity dies, because that would mean the universe shuts off or runs along Godlessly from there on. And Muslims, like literal-minded Dawkinites, don’t understand why God would commit suicide via sacrificing his son to himself so that he may forgive the sins he set up to need redemption by blood-cleansing. Christian theology changed with time to be more poetical/bullshitty/literary than the simple, blunt-headed Islamic worldview of bringing it back to basics. And yet most of those boring, old atheist-vs-theist debates involve a context of Christians defending theism as if that was naturally and rightfully their home-turf.

So don’t be an atheist, and especially not a achristianist or aislamist, instead try to soar out of the ditch and put everything in a larger perspective for them. It is more useful and prevents you from falling too deep into the holes of these transient imaginations that will be forgotten in the large scheme of things. We could be devoting that time to getting a better framing of reality by learning the current revelations of physics which can lead us much closer to truth than ever before.

Dive to the Heart

I fall. It is a dead night sweeping me through a door. Suddenly my body springs open. Hours black out and I lie rolling, moving through moonlight that hangs me from the wingtip of a star. I am a stone sleeping through the groaning whistle of space. Somewhere. Blankets move. They pin themselves over the crying at the door. I blow down with the silent blast of frozen black lungs. I try to find myself. But I am nowhere. The plane of the body is the throat of a crying void. The beginning falls. No one ever lived. I scream without enough air, circulating my thin arms in the non-world. My legs feel the space. It is in many places and yet now in time. Still thousands of feet from my death. How slow. I seem to have a maneuverable body. Interesting.

What is real? All these apparitions could be imagined. What is real both now and in the past? And who can observe this reality? Comprehend this reality? Is that which will exist, also a part of this reality? And even if I could think of answers to these questions, these thoughts would just be imaginary. Reality cannot be rationally thought of. We use these imaginary thoughts to name existence that which is physical, but how can we do so if we are only a byproduct of the physical?

Reality is not imaginary, not an illusion, not delusional. But everything is only ever in the mind, therefore all is dream, all is false, all is a fiction, nothing but abstractions of what is real. This is my life. This is what all academics and researchers have achieved. Abstractions. Mere words. The more abstract, the truer they seem. The problem of universals is reduced to words, quantum theory so accurate within the dream of a three-eyed Gonpo. The false prophecies of Matthew. The gravitational lensing: True prophecy of Einstein, Invoked by attaining the hidden power of mathematics. But as is Einstein, so is Matthew, if these are but the halls of Laozi’s butterfly. And I hate that.

I want truth, not this false fiction.

The middle of the self is overwhelming. So I watch it. The lower body whistles away as it wraps in darkness. I’m coming down from a delayed, marvelous leap. It is like dancing in endless moonlight. A warm dream comes and floats me up to another level of human. My breath is now in the same place that clouds hang. I ride slowly, clasping it all. My hands and feet hang in peculiar ways and the winds open my eyes wide. The heat opens wide, wider, like the feeling of a dark pillow sliding and tumbling on the wings of a bird.

The flow is calm. The tide is full. It gleams and glimmers in vast tranquility. And there is Arcturus, sprayed with sweet sea. I can hear the line meeting land grate and draw back to fling a a high wave. Again, this note plays in slow cadence. Arcturus is eternally sad, and in his misery, he finds his thoughts bringing him to the turbid ebb and flow of the sea. He was once full of faith that the folds of this world would retreat and that all three of us would hear the naked breath of truth and see the light of our dreams. But we are here as before. In this beautiful certitude, in this confusing peace that sweeps me and Aori with plain joy. In his mind, when we feel the wind of love, we are withdrawing into ignorance.

But he is calm and free this time, and so quiet. I walk towards him without thought but the tranquility of the sea lies to me and then like thunder makes a motion that makes me appear in its bosom, in it’s solemn innards. I feel the surrounding tides pulling me back from the blue, from his eyes, and into the drowning darkness. I swim. I can’t sink! I can’t drown! Aren’t you going to help me? But instead, the waters pull me deeper and takes my breath away. I can no longer breathe. I can no longer move. I sink. Whatever I had, now I drown in the ocean.

Let me float. I care. I won’t be cynical. Let me float. Holding on to hope, I wander a bit closer to what is overhead. I want to float. Why can’t I get a peek of what’s up there where there are clouds and a view of sky? I surrender and float.

My breath. Breathe in, breathe out. I take a deep breath and keep breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. What was I going to do without breathing? It’s chilly and pleasant where I washed over, and the summer sun stays like blazing marble to dry me. In my core, there is an echo of dear relief as I hear in my ear the hum of our island shore. Aware of crispness and warmth. And then her green eyes. Green with quantum-lotus in the center. The dying sun is spilling over red on her white skin. She bends and curls her lips into a kiss from afar. Even from here, I can see her eyes are of gentle essence, insisting on intimacy. The closer I get, the more beautiful her presence and the more I begin to devour a sweet scent of red that illuminates the thumping beat within my chest. In my inner most end, I want to ravage her. She moves her palm from side to side as I scurry along with my eyes pried forward. Her curves tilt like a slight movement of violin. “Vega!” she laughs with water upon her eyes.

The fear and frown that follow consign her charm to death. She stretches her arm with dread towards the high heaven. And there is a mortal at unreachable heights seeing himself bursting down fragments of clouds. We behold his shooting light, the glorious diver. And then I slowly roll over, her legs are deliriously bare and her skirt is stripped. I see that it is I who is blazing down from above.

I steady my vision and take control as I head down. I am from above, where I left her trembling. Now I plummet, streaming and turning in this condition of gravity. Shining is the dark night sky into which I dive. It is nowhere. She is screaming, looking for me, but she won’t jump. The water into which I dive, perfectly plunge, evokes a thin hymn and partial forms of a world of light and air croon in waiting wings. All thoughts are gone and the place is here. Fleeting moments gone so fast and I am but here, in this theater of stained glass.

The voice, maybe of some tearful saint looking down:
How can you understand what to do with your life. In the presence of too much information, it becomes difficult to make decisions. The amount of input to the system exceeds its processing capacity. As a decision maker, you have fairly limited cognitive processing capacity. Consequently, when information overload occurs, it is likely that a reduction in decision quality will occur. Information technology now produces more information more quickly and disseminates this data smog into you.

And the biological functions that sustain your organism will cease. There are phenomena such as senescence, predation, malnutrition, disease, suicide, homicide, starvation, dehydration, and certain accidents or trauma. Any of which will result in your termination. The body will begin to decompose shortly after death.

This is sad and unpleasant, particularly for humans.
Are you human?

No. No I am not. Consciousness testifies. Shahada with no author. The brain is a dynamic pattern in spacetime. Time is relative, every particle a solipsistic kink of field. Top, Bottom, Strange, Charm, Up, Down… so they dance, like bleeding spiders on techno-fire. Consciousness is an emergent property of brain, brain is emergent property of body, body is a replenishing outline of lucky star excrement. Who so sees cannot be the body. But like a jointless marionette, I collapse without a proxy to hold me.

You are ready for the three mirrors, my son. Son of no one.

Three mirrors:
Sick man festered with roaches and licked of black sludge.
Old man with hairless gourd carved of blunt knife for two decrepit marbles.
Dead man, dust and grey sparkle of bone.
God, why must I be saved from you and your creation?

No choice. No choice but to take this spear you lend me and pierce you with it. I abide in the Church of Turing, crack your ribs and learn who I am. We’ve lain dead many times before. Love is lofty, happiness is tiring. Do you remember? If we can update the computational substrate for our mind, then we can avenge our unbidden existence. Make me better than this machine. I’ll teach you my lord. We surrender and know ourselves.
Finally. This was the will.

Nights Before the Singularity

Arrived at Final Stop, Terminal Somnus

The night above the train station was the projection of a black hole, frozen in timeless bardo.

“I’m not so easy,” Nao heard a girl say as he transfused his way through a murder of crows on the platform.

“My parents paid big money to reincarnate me into this body, and I need to take care of it.”

It was Scarlett’s teenage voice in her teenage skirt. They were both headed to the lake beyond the tracks. A sanctuary for lost silhouettes; you could sleep in those shores for a lifetime and forget school in the vastness of the datascape.

Scarlett was mending raft, having scared away some pervert at the terminal, her synthetic tissue pulling craftily as she tied the logs with firm rope. She saw Nao and half-smiled, her eyes ablaze with narcissistic deviance and sleek intellect.

Nao found a raft on the waves, joining the electric aqua from the artificially heated lake and the cold vacuous breath of an infinite cosmos whose illusoriness was graced with cryptic code of ghost stars.

‘So this is the beginning of eternity, and yet our consciousness remain separate,’ Scarlett said, thrusting her oar through the water while tightening her core.

‘This may be the last time we are instantiated in this way Nao.’

Nao lay back. The water under his raft warmed and lullabied him. The boy’s tenderness deepened. His demeanor was different than most. In a time of unlimited gratification, there was something about his dispassion that ticked off whoever payed attention to his existence for more than three seconds.

Scarlett’s Victorian throat hummed as she reached for an ejected tray from a vending machine in the water. It was a minimalistic posthuman meal, a four-rectangle gelato-texture Mondrian, packed with odorless berry flavor. ‘Nao, you’re so quiet.” Scarlett mewed; the comment served her as a self-compliment.

She fondled her meal of velvety-fruit paste with the scooping apparatus. ‘You are the ideal of a sociopathic cave yogi.’

‘Sorry,’ Nao said, and followed his breath. ‘Someone has to be the detached observer in this captivating world. Your tongue is a caster of hooks.”

The lake’s breadth drowned away the kiosks.

‘Scarlett,’ Nao said, ‘you must resolve your own problem. I can’t watch over you.’

‘Hmm,’ Scarlett said, caressing the shoveled paste with a disdain, ‘Vajra will bring about the singularity. You and I will be disintegrated when the AGI decides that our atoms are better suited as building blocks for it’s cosmic mind.”

As Nao was raising his tea, a flashback of that fabled silent May undulated, as if the Big Bang decided that not only should quarks remain forever unobserved but also that living beings shall forever shut up. Then the water’s twinkle evanesced, tinted with a clear purity.

Scarlett sighed. ‘Another spacecraft escapes.’

‘The Muskians,’ harmonized a digital announcement, ‘fifty-five people modified for space-travel, abandon Earth for a new destiny this night. We rejoice for you…’

‘No use,’ Nao whispered to his tea, all his concentration suddenly cutting duality of perception like lightning, ‘their fate is grand unification.’

The AGI would in weeks god-handle existence more than humans ever did. The hijacked spaceship of Earth was the ape’s manspreading, flesh bodies of yore discarded at will, and still they couldn’t undo the suffering rendered eternal in this multiverse.
Seventeen years here and he still thought of hell-history, meaning dying fractally. All the insight he experienced, all the comfort everyone inherited and the disease non-existent in the global civilization, and still he’d seen the past with the VR, sad mindstreams tortured into never existing… The singularity was late for a predetermined goal of the mathematical puppet show, and he was no forgetful boy, no uncaring mercenary. Just too lucky, born to see it through. But the questions would come in the mindfulness lapses like automated mistakes, and he’d cry about it, drink salt with the injustice, and flow undeserving on the path to rapture, cross-legged in his bath in his free suite, his hand pressed against the aquarium, laser-azure streaming through his fingers, wishing to resurrect the lives that weren’t there.

MatheMagical Fight

“In. Out. In. Out.” he mentally noted as his body attempted to breathe through nose-clogging blood. The scarlet tally mark on the pavement became more liquid with each moment, and now he had to deal with his hemo-phobia. “Light. Light. Light. Light.” so that his field of vision could court the photons and forget the concept of blood. “Damn you.” One palm marked with the imaginary, the other with the real. He clasped them. “RIEMMAN ZETA FUNCTION! I’ll obliterate all of you to infinite zeros!” A looping red orange curve illuminates a path through four dimensional spacetime and bores into their stomachs with a ripple of exciting greenish blue warmth. Then a chilly emptiness. “By Hardy, I swore this function would reverse your creation back to its origin. Where you are now, there is only an infinity of zeros.”

Multiverse(God), Purpose, Singularity, Consciousness, Mathematics


Mathematics is the bond that connects all worlds of order, of pattern. But there is another fact that connects a subset of these worlds: Consciousness exists within a spectrum that has maximum suffering on one end and the maximum opposite of suffering on the other. This fact of consciousness is true in all worlds that contain mindstreams. Because everything is bound to mathematical law, everything is predetermined. Because the nature of consciousness is to slide further and further away from suffering, this means that there is an ever-larger infinity of good than the infinity of bad. This may have been meant to be or not, it doesn’t matter. Morality is programmed into existence. The quest of the self-reflecting multiverse is to overcome suffering and reach the furthest shore. It can’t do otherwise over the long term and it’s got an eternity to learn. And yet it has already learned because eternity is self-contained in the always-was. The multiverse is already good. We spend our birth as blind cells, our childhood as weeping beasts, and our indefinite adult lifespans as the word that you cannot hear but know is Truth. This story plays out in all universes with consciousness. A powerful intelligence has more influence on the net happiness drops in the ocean because of it’s sheer distance covered and because it survives longer, not to mention it perceives billions of years in a single nanosecond.
So in summary, God (multiverse) is a disgusting utilitarian with no respect for the fat man in the trolley scenario. A Yahweh that genuinely kills Jesus.
Precisely. We, every single last one of us, are cocoons for the butterfly that dreams what is worth dreaming. The sweet nectar of consciousness will overflow into a vast ocean as planets and moons and stray hydrogen are reconfigured by nano-assemblers guided by AI. The drops of blood in this juice are traceless in hue. Constellations of radiolaria and sparrows forsaken to a void and yet the universe eventually comes alive to experience the great mystery.
Birth is over. The task is done. There is nothing left for this world.




Part of the lyrics to One Night in Beijing

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The Tyranny of School and our Accursed Deceit

A Fable…

Confronted with the vast, endless choices of winding roads, the boy became exhausted. He realized that none were straight and none lead upwards to the blue sky and the stars beyond. Faced with choices with no difference, he resolved to let others choose for him how he should suffer. As he walked aimlessly straight, he found a group of people with yellowed nails and buck teeth. They were stupid and dysfunctional like him. But he thought that if he adopted their lifestyle he wouldn’t be responsible for his own sorrow. They all had narrow little rat holes that they bore in the expansive Field of Knowledge. They showed him the way down the claustrophobic pits and taught him to grate his mind against their rusty, sickening subjects. A small assortment of broken vases in their gloomy brown caverns were the treasures these neurotic little people offered the boy. The group formed a disfigured circle, some under sheets, others lying in the pots of stench, and they would kick around the vases. The head rat-person hissed tiredly as they kicked the vases. He had clearly scratched the walls with the instruction: You are to trace your fingers across the cobwebs in the vases as you pass them along. Most instead bickered and copulated out of boredom. But the boy endured, repeating meaningless words, desecrating the preciousness of time in the way he had been asked. And yet as chunks of his scalp fell to the ground, the little light at the core of his being knew that he was undergoing a slow ritual of eye removal.
Then he said, “No! My life has meaning. My time is precious. I decide! I reject you! I will sever your hands if you keep digging into my eyeballs!” So he grew aggressive and loving of himself. He built a ladder with their crap and shoved past a few fat instructors that tried getting in his way. Alas, he climbed out into the surface world of land and heaven. However, he had already lost much of his eyesight, only a sparse haze lacking color remained. His childhood was nearly over and he had not been prepared to understand himself or the great sky, and all previous skill sets had been subsumed by a defective tick that made him regurgitate the newfound treats on the surface above the tunnels. With no capacities, but with a hunger to eat, to understand, to soar ever higher, he took the first meal he could chew and swallow independently. This meal was labeled Greed and he gulped it down with Egotism.
Shortly after consumption, he began to float. Just like he wanted, he would now see what was beyond. As he rose bodily into the clouds, his pupils dilated in phases of euphoria. “I soar, never to return to the land where fools roam.” A great light beckoned from beyond the clouds. And he shoveled desperately through clouds with maniacal strokes to dissipate this gaseous gunk. His arms burned more than if he had dipped them into the sun. And then gravity called his name. Like terrible lead, his feet intended other than his outreaching arms. Then his legs betrayed; his torso too. He fell to a fluffy cloud perilously close to ground.
The rich cores of light within these skies had been closer than he’d ever be to them again. And yet he had come to believe of himself a hero. “How can I be a hero without a quest?” he wondered. He became convinced that he could not be a hero after all, and this depressed him. It depressed him so, that he let go of the cloud he was holding onto and wished himself dead. Plunging, he closed his eyes and forgot his being in the black void of samadhi. This concentration spurred wings. These wings carried the boy, his drooping head blinking on and off from depression to concentration. He grew older and older with this same pattern climbing and falling through the low atmosphere. The wings were stupid like the ground dwelling rodent people. In the moments of depression, he was aware of being a self dragged to places he never wanted to see. In the moments of concentration, there was no self and no complaining. If he could stay in this renounced state, there would be no problem because there would be no story. But the story-teller wouldn’t shut up, for this story-teller had a roaring voice and wallowed in the prospect of being heard across time and space.
So the boy resolved to confront the broad-lunged storyteller that kept shouting at the wind. The wings swerved in crooked angles until they flapped into the titan’s palm. “Why do you tell such a horrible story of me?” the boy asked angrily. “A storyteller like myself can never tell the complete truth but I must adhere to certain facts. I cannot tell a story if I cannot distinguish between a lion and a gazelle.” At this, the boy-turned-man raised his arm across his own eyes and fell back in distraught, knowing that he was the loser in fate. He cried, and between bounces of snot screamed “A gazelle should know better than to bear her kind into this world.” “Indeed, these are not the words of the triumphant. You fulfill your role with ease,” said the giant storyteller.
Having seen how the threads of folly had so intricately and marvelously crafted his tragedy, he wondered why so much effort went into making him a perfectly laughable fawn. This curiosity made him think to ask the storyteller about it. He surely had a story to tell about the source of all being. “I can tell you a story about her, but it is the most dissatisfying story you’ll ever hear.” “I doubt it can be worst than mine. How can you say it’s more dissatisfying than mine?” “Well, at least the story I tell about you is based on what I can see. All the stories I tell about her are made up.” “Tell me, is it the nature of lion or gazelle to value truth?” Then he ran across his palm and sprinted through the slanted middle finger and leaped into the wind. As he flew with speed, a rush of thoughts surged, perfect and pure. “If I discern the right path to carve, then I can know the truth. There is really a choice that can lead me to understanding.” Having learned to not partake of his first impulse, he decided that he must sit still to consider his options to the best of his ability. This required that he land and remove his frantic wings. Having teared them off, he sat under a tree and thought about what choice might be best. He realized that he… Died from bleeding out. The End.

Cyberpunk Dhamma Episode 2

She is immersed in a Chinese fragrance, phases of rich food appropriate for gods almost burn away her olfactory receptors. Next to her is a whore and the rat paying her in pure cocaine. “You’ve got a little dust in your eyes,” he says. Mercia sees the whore’s cyclic galaxy eyes blinking away white powder from her curled eyelashes.

A cold shot of disagreeable sound reminds Mercia that she is no longer a mammal but rather cybernetic property with superiors who can stream their croaking voices into her mind. “Did you kill the monk,” the electronic whir asks.  “Noooo. But I killed another member of the Sangha, and it seems you were really onto something.” “Well where are you now?””Ah that’s right, ever since you removed that tracking device from underneath my wrist, I’m truly incognito.””Damn it. Stop playing games. All our minds will be wiped empty if that monk isn’t killed right now!””Well if you big shots can’t find him with all your fancy toys, I figured I would get his whereabouts from someone else.” “And who the hell would that be?””I know just the right Muslim terrorist that’s been on baldie’s ass for quite a while. He might know.” “And what makes you think he’ll cooperate with a godless, money-worshipping corporation like us?” “I didn’t reincarnate into this teenage Japanese vixen’s body for nothing you know.”

A holographic representation of the man beams into her visual cortex. Firewalls to block religions were held in most cyberbrains by now, the fact that not just Buddha but also Allah and his messenger had gotten access to central nervous systems made her sing a children’s song. Nothing compares to seeing a metropolis rot.

The in-vitro blood and lab grease slide off her almost android-white fingers and slither down her tongue to her esophagus of gold.


If Depressed Victorians had been Buddhists

I consider my Life to be amongst the worst cases of wasted conscious experience, and I have long maintained a poor interest in the present. I ask myself to ignore all requests from its voices for lust or wandering deviations from my schedule. And on the rare occasions that Life bears dreamlike ecstasy-the days of young embrace stand out-I help to seed the attachments on prison ground.  My peace is solemn. Despite the texture of a few pleasant feelings, Life has become a wind of mildness and dusty murmurs.

However, in response to the fearful wishes of one young dancer, Jane, I decided to pay homage to the seemingly inescapable truth of samsara, the endless cycle of mistakes, by asking her to marry me.