my friend i can hear the drums from miles

This body is just a body. Miraculous. Inside this human game I'm a trying failure. Outside of it, I'm a spirit. I'm the spirit. The impoverished don't use it as an opiate. I was wrong. The truly humbled just know. They are reduced and closer to it, so they know. That they are it. That they are everything. That they have nothing to worry about because they are something. And that its all meaningless prefix and that the thing is not an object, it is light, bright, piercing, expanding, ever. In human terms the sun is a dot in the light flora.

I was getting all caught up in the game of identity and it was small. It, the actions we take are irrevlevant. The inner garden we cultivate and the beauty it abounds, is decorative only for a time. Time is only a notion in a very small wristwatch on the hand of a man eaten by a giant lost in the multiverse.

I'll kill you. Understand? Do not take it literally. Do not take it in flesh. When those messiahs spoke in anger it was only a passion that was pouring outward toward light. It is a violence only in meek terms of language and human and temporal flesh, and only because that is a metaphorical velocity in movement. No one is harmed, not here, not anywhere, because they are not anyone. There is no one. That is not a lonely statement. It is a recognition. We are not One. Or one. Or 1. We are not we. We are not are. We are

And I know it is scary to admit. Open your hands outward and if you don't have hands or they are full let your spirit bloom uninhibited and no matter how you do it, it is never going to stop