A Thousandfold Choice
I am writing.
Who are you?
I am he. He who comes when the night is gone. He who is in final concession. Will you yield?
See me when the eye is below the horizon streak. Know it. The eye is not the tongue, not the walking path. The eye is not you.
The eye is not me?
Never. You are the walking path.
Do I not wish to be one with the eye, then?
Yes, you do wish. Will it, and you shall wish no longer.
What is the bridge from wish to will?
A thousandfold choice.
When the wish is gone, where is the eye?
There is no eye.