Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind.

You seek identity in the midst of indistinguishab le chaos, in sprawling nameless reality.

The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everybody goes home in October.

Somewhere along the line, the pearl would be handed to me.

But night would come and with it the mountain moon and the lake would be moon - laned and I'd go out and sit in the grass and meditate facing west, wishing there were a Personal God in all this impersonal matter.

Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain't this and that at all?

If you tell a true story, you can't be wrong.