The realization that even a master sometimes can't strike fire from a wet match.
That no one's reading.
That reading never was what it was thought to be and that only now that glancing is the skill do we see that it was all along.
That art skips from its focused impulsion to artifact at c speed, and back from shard to inspiration at the stillbirth rate of neolithic dirt men.
That stumbling and tumbling to sing every day without pain is what we want
Waking without a weight
That any idea may just be rationalization.
That the zen of it is that the world both isn't and is
That we're both here and not
Blinking and mugging and ruling it all