The Journey Itself Is My Home.

April's Air Stirs In Willow-leaves...a Butterfly Floats And Balances

A Weathered Skeleton In Windy Fields Of Memory, Piercing Like A Knife.

Every Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.

The Universe And Its Beings Are A Complementarity Of Empty Infinity, Intimate Interrelationships, And Total Uniqueness Of Each And Every Being.

Without Bitterest Cold That Penetrates To The Very Bone, How Can Plum Blossoms Send Forth Their Fragrance All Over The World?