And Wheresoever We Went, Like Juno's Swans, Still We Went Coupled And Inseparable.

This is everything, this is wholeness, and there is nothing wrong. The mind's job is to rove and question and critique and judge, conclude, and devise action. Yet whatever action is taken, whatever questions come up, whatever critiques and judgements are given, they are just what they are, not a solution to a nonexistent problem. Yet even the perception of a problem is perfect. Every tool exists so that the somethingness from nothingness can be apprehended, and apparently negotiated. The notions that the appearance is flawed, and must be corrected, is part of the endless game; and although there is nothing wrong with wrong and nothing that needs changing, nor, indeed, anyone who can change the perfection of what is, it may be seen that this is paradise. It most assuredly, obviously is exactly what it is, and there is no way it could not be perfect, even in the questioning of its flawlessness. How beautifully it seems to appear, and it cannot be improved upon, even those confusing and ironic thoughts that long for improvement. This is what is longed for and searched for and killed for; this, this life, in this endless now, there is nothing to search for; this is it.