How much of this worldly and heavenly garden is just scenery. Enjoy denial. This graffiti strikes me as I am passing by on a moving city bus. The graffiti of the floating flowers school. Purest little prajna, set firm like stone for the seekers of satori in this grand elaborate meditation. Distraction in the raked zen sandbox. Dip ones toes into the metaphysical ocean, is the water hot or cold? Inviting or repulsing? Water or space? This whole act, an obstruction, these metaphysical properties merit not a single physical quality worth mentioning. All void. All nullified at the source. Does the simple act of floating begin when one recognizes all this indifference? Charming clairvoyance, Is the mind a flower constantly flashing its most exquisite petals, for it then to decipher from these, which ones are real and which ones are imaginary? Is the mind forever floating on the consequence of being wrong, making life problematic and in such being problematic, never discerns its greatest truth? If only one could lay out ignorance, and do away with suffering. Do egos form the tip of every cataclysm? Most certainly they follow in their wakes, their retaliations, their rebuildings, their revenge, their building back up and their inevitable boiling back down again into dust. How much of this heavenly and worldly garden can I recognize as mere scenery? My answer strains from all symbols, talks in all symbols, this indifference, enjoy denial.