I connect with breath and wonder, how in the secret name of heaven could this body and mind be anything more than a moan before death, a falling leaf, or rainwater collecting into rivulets that slip into drains? Then I notice the many impacts of form onto my senses, and the consciousness that arises there. Even the voices of many beings to whom I might send Metta must strike me somewhere, however lightly or in whatever way too quiet for my busy mind to sense.
My observation dislocates and I reach painfully for a new balm.
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