keeps me walking up the same path, setting out at first light, hills hidden
behind misty scrim, slogging through falling drifting leaves, loose stones
trundling beneath nagging feet,
I found myself back in the old temple surrounded by steep hills, the snow-coned mountain in the distance. Tang of incense, low drone of mantras, wide sleeves rustling with the smugness of knowing, while yes and no remained antagonists within clean-shaven heads. I awoke thousands of miles and decades away, and still bald.
According to Karin Sanders, "There is no such thing as the historical, the ethnological, or the geographical imagination, but that each of necessity comes in multiple forms." Existence is more flickering than fact.
is where every thing begins, and I am under the influence