There’s an old guy wearing a cheap, blue hoodie, sitting in a chair on a naked wooden porch, in the little shack right behind the house with the goats, coughing. But, not to worry, his cough is from the deep hit of Mr. Nice Guy he just took from an stained, corncob pipe.
He takes another breath, just to ease things, and then sips Yunan black tea from a white, 12-ounce porcelain cup, sweetened with just a dab of honey and goat’s milk.
Woe betide souls that breathe air that only exists in dreaming using names for things that will never really be.
“I don’t know what you believe about the now,” says the old man, “about the only thing to know that you’ve always, already known in this neverending ever that can’t be anything else.”
He takes another hit, this time letting the cloud of dense smoke slowly out from his lungs.
“Were we fools to seek what we apparently already had? Do we still cry in despair about what we never have ever truly lost?”
Who is he talking to? Who is he writing this for?