Now is the season of the butterfly. Its story is the nectar of the gods. Transformation is the nature of the beast.
Even science says that self-awareness is the only great intention and the fact of death is pointless and absurd.
But philosophy only thinks about it. Experiential being without thinking knows. Haiku haiku haiku.
The sun sets earlier tonight but I know it's only this and that. Space has no seasons. Contemplation is knowing a cigarette boat is
temporary. Open windows on a summer evening like the sea seen from an easternmost peak.
Evening breeze and leaves are dancing like translucent jade ninjas. Early July night. Not a sound in the valley. Not even a cricket.
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