THE "ABAD"==ornamentation w/hues of humanity *Arabic term

My urine piddle is a wrinkle in time; I only want to piss on spectral shores. Next to attritioning river of time (the irony of its slow fidelity takes earth's map into one penultimate direction--the ocean is never full, takes more & more & denies all the purchase of man's alliterating paths, padding thru dust=articulating it & washed of its precise content!), memory 'flect and thought tarries like light in waves of immense magnificate days...
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).

Sun's corona pushes my thoughts to the blue redeemed blanket, and starwealthy possibilities!
As some mystic heathen, solitude waiting for me to brave solarity, around the mid-teens of my life, I threaded the white horizon break as companion to katan Olam, the microcosm, healing contained Within, and its Meaning elusive but indicated Without
I am there but not less than her--more. Yet she so ooother, is the beatific exigent to all that world you ever leverage voluntas to work for. Still, her promise is in semblance, and not necessarily in union. Her formal throe into all my social resource, consumes me--consumes everything more than me. She's more than muse - she gives Emotional-soul, the one associated with Mercy, to the vehicle of expression. She is Spirit chorus--the wind commentator--and I am sullied by just a feeling... Without her is one thing, without me is quite another. I am sullied by just a feeling. She's its epiphany--at least I gainsay my fealty embowering thru powerlessness.
Blood spore dissipation, mind-sore apprehension is this one's and that one's utter inept rapture with the marvel of this world notably taken for soluable sensory data. The reserve any One-other has to desire more integrity in homeward loam has all the product of imagination of my vouchsafe in cedar clarified lair--thing actual.

Language is material--martyring its potent affection may be self-duty, a way to "save" yourself from the threat that the well of time, the conscious-pocket, is a reservoir of the Other's extremis in your center from Without.

Imagine that suspended feeling,when the road transpires really very linearly. For a moment hypnotic & freed up. Either the weird security that we attend to in its moment to moment nuance is jettisoned or not--but if it is, this state of mind--similar to the attention we sight in meditation, only reveals a feeling about MORE loss of control... Rather it is much like the daoists claim about fluidity, effortlessness! The road is matched in perfect glyphs self promoting ready to be scathed--an image adduces formally a book of rules--aspirations of imagination. But how the mind codifies the Efficient Cause has Shapeless Mass = Jah--in one spectral vessel, a moment, and just a pulse that nothing any longer is hidden.
PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.

Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
For a time I decided not to look in a mirror. Other people telling me they've done that always seemed so contrived--like a strange concern over vanity had consumed them. In Jerusalem at the yeshiva I stayed at, went to classes over-together for just a few weeks, the men had no mirrors in the lavatories. (Odd, and compelling--tho' other and unevidenciary.) Driving down my neighborhood road anticipation of my visage now after a couple of months of avoiding my rreflection would have a continguous immanent quality. Not so much the obviate readying oneself for presentation in social oevre as we project and schedule, but what occurred was a feeling that the next time I look it would be a tremulous look under the veil--a purdah of distance strung... I waited til I thought I had seduced the most revealing facade of appearance--a tacit escounced moment -- then at a precise moment, instead of holding eyes into the steady gaze toward rear-view mirror, I pulled down the visor--having no mirror--and wallah, there I look back at myself all King Crimsony as if reflection should be coiled in stillness in the looking glass... The stranger was abated--I knew the red anthropositing of I Me Mine, yet the receiver of my cadence certainly was not withOut: it was wholly within.