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Tai Chi. Moving the body and spirit, having a sense of the spark and that magic. A sense of knowing a moment. A knowing from one's toes to a nose, a wiggle here, a wobble there, and deeper, within, that digestion, more than it can seem, the heart, more than can be seen. This reality without appearing, this experience, without seeing, this feeling, the illusion of reality.

All that is is this way. A sage says to an onion, with a tear in her eye. These simple words, each a note to pluck, to touch, to hum, hum, a breath, long, slow. This decay that manifests itself in these perceptible ways. These words, an appearance, no stage, no performance, no acting, being.

Back to book-making today. This making of books, so much more than making. An involvement, through each day, movement, contemplation, repetition, pictures to ponder, words to arrange, simple words, just notes, to pluck, a string, a vocal chord, a sound, of a voice, this illusion of reality.

This morning, tips of fingers, end of nose, edge of ears catch the chill air. I look up at a clear sky, not seeing beyond. Looking back, seeing this dot of something we humans call a planet, in a universe, so it goes on, decaying, and I look back, see this city, a dot, and look back, and see my self, a dot, and remember a moment long ago, a way of seeing, and knowing, a dot.

And now, a deep breath, a long sigh, a smile, thanks for the fresh water, the warm rich coffee, just a little milk, and these people, passing, the music playing, a background to writing, a play of words.

And outside, a building reflects the light of sun, and beyond, the trees catch the light, absorb the light as they decay to grow. We humans have a long way to go. A sense of being, the spark so deep, I walk to dance.

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