This was a manuscript of the night we couldn’t read.

And with joy you realize for the first time "Thinking's just like not thinking — So I don't have to think any more".

Rather, I think one should write, as nearly as possible, as if he were the first person on earth and was humbly and sincerly putting on paper that which he saw and experienced and loved and lost; what his passing thoughts were and his sorrows and desires.

What does it mean that I am in this endless universe, thinking that I'm a man sitting under the stars on the terrace of the earth, but actually empty and awake throughout the emptiness and awakedness of everything? It means that I'm empty and awake, that I know I'm empty and awake, and that there's no difference between me and anything else.

I'd also gone through an entire year of celibacy based on my feeling that lust was the direct cause of birth which was the direct cause of suffering and death.

...but I preferred reading the American landscape as we went along. Every bump, rise, and stretch in it mystified my longing.

Always pull back-and see how silly we must look to God.