Someone had faked his death. i tell my friends i can do this too, and fall to the ground, where i lay with my eyes closed. Slowing heart rate and respiration, i feel myself moving away, until i hear their voices from a distance. A woman playfully blows into my ear, but i feel only a pleasant breeze. i feel how much energy oconsciousness demands; while here everything takes are of itself. i don't want to return.

This morning I walk under the bridge past the non-objective iron sculpture, Balch Creek to the left, as I enter the forest. A single leaf sails down, dipping and spinning. Watching it fall, I sigh in a wilderness where a billion species live interdependently.

A runner flies over the stone-spiked path like a lung-gom-pa. Behind him, an old man and a black dog are slowly approaching.

    Lopping after his master,
   the dog suddenly stops,
   and lifts his leg.

"Is this the path to the Japanese Garden?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies
.

Continuing on, soon man and dog are approaching me again!

"Did you get there?" he asks, a smile playing in the dog's dark eyes. I admit that I hadn't.

 

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