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There is only one way to really get through it, make progress, ascend the crooked ladder.
The ocean is always below any state of mind, swirling below, crashing below.
To continuously not drown. You, wandered, are the exception.
Everything is elegant about you, nothing is torn or stained.
You walk through glaciers humming and holding a high-priestess cup.
Yesterday untold gains and today untold hardships,
so balance goes and numbers dip and dive bop gridlines and beneath your feet.
Know that there are patterns and processes unseen through millennia,
when into the leaves and the bark of trees, jungle numbers hold still their pattern.
Strikers in air strikers in clouds holding still to their pattern, beneath whispers of loose form.
Gentle it is not, questioned it is not,
The fierce encoded reality.

Overturned is where you are.
On your belly and with shallow breaths.
Away from the water away from the air and sick to your toes any current plague.
A time tested grab gravity.
Islands somewhere untouched still, with patterns, with structure, still untouched.
Retreading can do you some good, and then no good and then the ultimate good.
What is reddened, blackened, and thrown into the kiln?
What is it in the alchemists oven? Always something in process.
Everything in process according to its own nature, then, according to nature.
Everything in process to sticking, time-tested patterns.
The gridline beneath is yellow, with black surrounding it, and high-fire motion.
Venerable silhouette against high-fired clay wall, smoky passage to Him.

Approaching someone who knows you’re approaching, and you know it as well.
Where the eye meets the object, where the student meets the teacher.
Bolster and bound. He will give you life eventually,
for now, approach.
His turning body means all turning bodies.
His soft gaze means all of the soft gazes together in the field of awareness.

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