Studying the Kannon Sutra, I am struck with the parallels it shares with the ideas of the Floating flower school, and I ask myself rather precariously, why is the son of the Buddha named Rāhula? Knowing only an answer in sanskrit or poly taints the tastebuds of impersonalized practicioners, I avoid the potential fires altogether and stick to lakes that have just boiled over. I am at a loss for words. A lobster screaming out his tortures that become liberation to supposed starving men. I have no intention of seeking out disciples, everything already lectures to me. I’ve picked up Kannons fearlessness. The dharma in this registered totality. All seperate notions, all seperate forms, all that is left; to give sway entirely, a shift in either lifeforce transforms one into an embodiment of Kannon, illuminating spectrums, the magic of the Bodhisattva. This is the floating flower school expounding on the Kannon Sutra, no miracles need my realization, though the dharma demands them. I who am saved from such simple discussion, falling into the wakes of every illusion, the executioners sword is made of butterflies and they float up and over many things without ever making a sound or being felt; a subtle life affirming earthquake.