,


more goose-pimpled sounds, insipid pin-pricks of mental illumination shoot like darts from the outer sphere toward the surface where we stand. The coldness behind my eyeballs foretells the frosty vision of the winter-minded Way. Slippery, fresh, biting, mucus freezing as it drains out your nostrils onto your naked upper lip...I can see that you are unprepared for the topography of the seasons as they are sifted through the comb-teeth of our perceptions.

The sky, blue, the sun, yellow-white and without warmth, the snow, golden where the great star illuminates and where shadows rule, blue. The winter sky is astounding as it domes over the crystal covered branches and glass encrusted flowers, sprung from the ground too soon.

Is the air actually cleaner, or does it simply smell less darkened when the coldness dampens ones sense of smell?

From out of the gallery comes the maroon and saffron robed monk, the chill is pleasant on his darkened skin. It clings to and is transformed by the friendly smile and grinning eyes.

Om A Hung Vajra Guru Peme Siddhi Hung.

Om Mani Peme Hung

Om A Hum Vajra Guru Padme Siddhi Hum.

Om Mani Padme Hum

The smell of dhoop rises into the city sky. The sound of chanting mingles with the roar of noise obsessed animals. Compassion, compassion.

I retreat into that place where I can count the insipid pin-pricks of mental illumination like sheep, trying to send myself to sleep.