Oh the stories I could tell, I could write. But what would be the point? To carefully document my history of infinity? Can one turn the sensation of bliss into a word? A sentence? I don't know.

I watch myself write and ponder what I'm thinking. Hah! "I"! Like you really know who I am! I could spell it out and you still wouldn't come close to grasping the full significance of it all.

Here I sit, at a donut shop in Southern California, hot chocolate in hand, notebook on table, and fine French Cognac in my belly. What does that mean? Nothing, This passage of writing is no better or worse than any other! You choose what is and is not suitable towards your tastes and act accordingly. Don't blame me, I'm just a speck of dirt under the fingernail of God.

What am I doing? Anything I want. Why do I choose to do it? I don't. I give myself up to God. What is the point of free-will? My pride has been satiated, it has no further qualms. There is nothing anyone can say that will make me feel important or special. I am who I am, take me for that or move on. I don't need you, I've lost it all and have regained everything'¦over, and over again. I'll never be at rest and I'll never be at ease.

The meaning of no meaning, the way of no-way. Do to not do, not do so that you may do. Strive for the constant balance. Separate yourself from separateness. What does He want from me? To enjoy myself! Why does He ask so much? He doesn't'¦

To God, I am but a lowly beggar. To myself, I am a failed warrior. To you? Who knows. Judge me and you in turn judge yourself. Words come and words go but ideas remain the same. These ideas may be arranged, re-arranged, pre-ordered, pre-fabricated, and uploaded to the internet for the enjoyment of the masses. Switch them around, see what happens.

Who knows where this is going, starting, or ending? Not I.

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