Today is twenty-three. The poem was written half the day ago. What do I do now? I've caught up to the path.
The spaciousness is unfamiliar but created. The spaciousness is not in equilibrium with the spaciousness outside the spaciousness. There is an opening somewhere,
closed by a door, and I know I can open the door and see what's on the other side, but I know already,
the door is transparent, there is song out there but so much else besides, and suddenly I understand my friend's fear of success,
because success is a castle that disappears into a vista where you see what's around and it is nothing you feel protected in
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