In a perfect world there are no words, but words are that which make the absolute unknown and pure awareness god buddha nature brahman tao or that, perfection.
If the god called pure awareness is omnipresent, and
omnipresence is obviously and manifestly self-aware, then the storied stuff of
process in-between is called
the evolutionary self-reflexive universe, myself in being
self-aware, eom. To the senses come a scent of roses, cherry blossoms,
Italian-roasted coffee.
Despite philosophies that go against the grain, a vein of
love runs through their breathless conversation like a fantastic movie, O
Romeo. But my black light reveals a universe of psychedelic colors—
self-awareness is like now knows now without the when or
then or any other sound of silence. Listen! The world is just a box of dreams I
dreamt more than thirteen billion years ago.
There's nothing wrong with the world that can't be
unbelieved. And unbelieving is the gist and perk of my patented contemplative
meditation. Just pure awareness being self-aware. Buy it or not.
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