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There was no way. One thing after another. The hut
was inapproachable. One -- to feed himself from where?
Two -- to afford his writing? He could not take his
life. So he sought to erase the dust with an image.
One -- the garden.
Oh, the garden fails!
Too many have written about the garden. If he could
not approach it without their words how could it
exist? Two -- the rock. Three -- the bowl.
Four -- the floating lotus. One thing after another. Every line was only
an artifice to drag out his long ears.
The desire to leave his body, the
body without the mind. The mind trailing and
discolored.
Who would have thought? His home, the stones, the
children who brought rice and ran. What did any hold?
Consciousness, light and poison.
To hold death. Another
image.
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