How similar two very different Buddhas appear, dressed in different ancient garb, walking and freely associating among us ignorant man and beasts, and looking out for the purity of the Western world. Beyond any compensating horizon, the setting sun as it is drifting in and out of focus. A great confederation of the Sanghas gather, with no words about the other to disgust, co-exist. A great peace, the solidified way, with the beating of drums and the swirl of dancers to maintain this equilibrium, Amida Buddha and Deganawida the Great Peacekeeper, exchange sentiments. Everything in this Saha realm becomes a projection of this procession, and I am just a paddle for Deganawida’s stone canoe, and a lotus handle for a golden palanquin. At the point where two rivers become one, then haven’t all bodies of water become connected as one? This doing away with duality. The great fire at the centre of all things is this peace of unification, the longhouse as it extends to every pureland, unrestrained by its own structural limitations, and composed of a a multitude of material. Can one hold it down to a prophesy or a well-worn fable? Have not all the signs been met prior to my knowledge of them? I alone am not worthy to receive these merits of a future projection. So finite and coarse, I haven’t yet aged these bliss-bestowing hands long enough to hold it. I on the outside, am an outsider in every culture that I claim, but on the inside, the many are but one. The outside then, like the mighty Hiawatha, still cannibalistic, still waiting for his conversion, waiting for the great peace to take him and accept him. Here is he, stumbling on his footing in the first few steps in the pureland, holding his breath and thinking it all one great dream, wakes up still there, always haunted before he is enlightened.