Drum sound rises on the air, its throb, my heart. A voice inside the beat says, "I know you're tired, but come. This is the way.

The fluteplayer puts breath into a flute, and who makes the music? Not the flute. The Fluteplayer!

I become a waterwheel, turning and tasting you, as long as water moves.

Enough of words. Come to me without a sound.

The body's a mirror of heaven: Its energies make angels jealous. Our purity astounds seraphim. Devils shiver at our nerve.

I want to sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think.

You are not your body; you are the eye. When you see the spirit, you are free of the body. A human being is an eye – the rest is just flesh and bones. Whatever your eye sees, you are that.