Stories begin, of pleasure, of pain, in the theatre of the mind. I watch them for a while. I watch the whole story, where life turns to dust, and pain falls wet upon the ground. The stone is a prayerbook without gilt and naked; Of course, that is how faith finds the words, only in what is written upon our eyes, fingers, and what is spoken on the wind.
Does the Buddha live after death? The theatre empties to me alone, and a cold breath on my neck. I touch the stone, sweet usher of atmosphere.
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