A Weathered Skeleton In Windy Fields Of

Do Not Seek To Follow In The Footsteps Of The Wise. Seek What They Sought.

The Journey Itself Is My Home.

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

Go To The Pine If You Want To Learn About The Pine, Or To The Bamboo If You Want To Learn About The Bamboo. And In Doing So, You Must Leave Your Subjective Preoccupation With Yourself. Otherwise You Impose Yourself On The Object And You Do Not Learn.

Don't Imitate Me / We Are Not Two Halves / Of A Muskmelon.