No matter how far I may roam, in the passing wind, in the dancing tree–there again I find myself suddenly home.
The old religions sang of Mother Goddess, the womb of creation, from which all things are borrowed and return to. My breath is borrowed, my body the exhalation of my Soul.
Here in this virtual landscape, I situate myself. A hermit far from the metropolis of “trends.”
Come here and you won’t hear a thing about what is useful. Here is the joy of the world as it was and is and always will be.
Come here and listen to my songs of the passing clouds, the moth on the windowsill. I have nothing useful to say.
Come here and listen to the poems of old cultures past, watching as our own culture and civilization rise and fall like the winds.
Civilizations are born like Egos in time, only to last a while, giving themselves up to greater cycles of expansion and contraction. Step here in this virtual temple, this sacred hut where nonsense is spoken. Come see that the Earth is a Womb in Birth.