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  • Some days I can sit for hours and not move,
    not talk,
    just contemplate.
    On these days, I am certain I must be the
    modern Buddha,
    sent in vain to deliver the worms and flies to
    Nirvana.
    I fight (occasionally successfully) the onslaught then of
    self-righteousness and
    martyrdom.
    I must remember that my Chuck Taylors do not consecrate the
    living Earth under the tree where I sit.
    I cuss misanthropically;
    this helps deflect the opposing army.
    I am too apathetic to be the
    Buddha.
    I catch glimpses of
    Nirvana.
    Every insect
    for
    itself.
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