There is no plane, only innumerable distractions. Is it my innate supernatural power or my politics that direct me to this conclusion. I, who have only dabbled in the Sutras, yet know their teachings as they manifest in me. To use my writings as a diamond and pinpoint it down to its most immaculate conception. There is no audience, Only innumerable distractions. Wars fester up and then phase out, convention goes long before it goes short. And while 239 people manifest in the minds of the world, millions disintegrate and are reborn unnoticed, and how does one go about in these teachings of Samsara. How sad it must be then to know that the bottom of the deepest oceans or the most remote of deserted islands or in the foreign thickness of a terror plot are but the same clenched fist outcome. What black holes manifest on our map, disguised by the colouration and the shading distinguishing between bodies of water and landmass. The universe as it is in one long instance is enshrouded in a single designating Bermuda Triangle. Everything eventually disappearing, being consumed by its own mystery. There is no plane, only this inconsistent and innumerable dancing. As it drifts into the pureland, nothing goes in; too busy trying to get out.