The congregation assembled, I alone await Maitreya, the future Buddha, to take on as the Floating Flowers Schools only living patriarch, but then the question poses itself like this, am I the only living disciple? Do I even hold enough merit to marvel at the form of his mighty Dharma. I’ve begun to consider myself a post-modern renaissance man, changing the word blasphemy into art when critics speak. My world, this world, that world, all illusory when they transcend my grasp of them from the beginningless beginning. I’ve never saved time by wasting it somewhere else. I’ve never saved souls by wasting mine somewhere else. This future poses with every ounce of it, a threat, spiritual annihilation. Why begin it, rushing blind? No Kami is pleased with human kind. Do I alone have to appease them all? My chan becomes a forge building nameless clay sculptures. The masters seat lay vacant. Maitreya being on his constant retreat, never preaches, but the Dharma is expounded through the trees and up to the floating flowers. The kiln loaded to the brim, And I have seen him a million times at least pass by me, but no statues can be made that allow me to recognize his face.