Once limitless kalpas ago, so I am led to believe by what I am told, this illusory world was filled with a kind of magic. This they called utopia but by many different sounds and gestures, for words had yet to be invented. All alike, those sentient beings who dwelled there associated with each other freely and there was causation, not to be missed, but never so apparent as to strike ones being with a certain trembling that I see as relevant in this quasi-ignorant realization. For there were no Buddhas as of yet to grace this Saha realm, only bacterium and microorganisms. Those building blocks of life, that became distopian architecture when they could exert words so as to describe and depict. Was it in this complexity that a creature goes about in destroying itself to be reborn, gathering such a weight in that destruction that all its further fettering leading up to itself, became mundane and wholly inductive to this architecture. As I write this here on Cold Mountain in a poem, somewhere else a skyscraper is erected. Piece by piece, weld by weld. I wash my poem off with rainwater fearing the association to graffiti. But I don’t have to see this structure to know that a certain religious zeal guarantees this distopian architecture built, upon itself, for itself. As I watch it smother out any utopian Buddhism that can be practised. The Dharma wheel becomes a rubber tire, how much recycling can this Samsara really handle? The I who produces nothing, and the I who reproduces the other, both contribute to the design, how does one escape then what is solely consequential? Discovering a Utopia behind the tapestry that conditions mind and body to certain forms and functions, but always at a vantage point to some great distance. Still yet further, nothing mirrors this authenticity and nothing guarantees its passing. Have I stumbled into the swamp where all stagnant things gather. I shall let my stomach react to the tasting of this tainted water and let my body display its victorious results.