Does the world exist, why do I suspect that no matter the depth of your spirituality, are you homeless on the streets, a monk or a sadhu living on honey, whatever wealth, or your money, your connections, your family, love and sex, your body count, whether men or women, the depth of your sin, your hunger and the sweetness of the fruit you’ve tasted, that no matter what, we’re all equal under heaven, at most, as we gather resources, skills and ability, we'll have more delusions to deal with, like the stars found out what you were good in, strings pull, we are but men and women, doomed to be working, the moon is a hungry bitch, so much war and bloodshed, for Helen of Troy, lord knows, we’ll dance till we’re dead, our corpses buried and rotting, till she throws you in the laundry, to wash the grime, and do it all over again…

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