And the brutality of it all happens only behind the screen, in a nullspace, and it doesn’t ever seem real,

even when it’s happening to you. And we can if we want imagine so much worse; and in fact, we can imagine

so much the better than we have ever likely observed; but for all our visions, do we never act upon any of them.

And we are not so much lost as milling around, waiting impatiently for something we forgot what it was,

sometime back in childhood — though in cruel, existential irony, it might be our childhood itself which is that thing.

And our enlightenment, our own sound of one hand clapping: detachment from all things by going into shock,

desireless by not seeing the point of it: lo, meandering outside the cycle of life and death, carefully untouched by destiny.