I sit,
alone in my garden of nonsense,
impending doom awakening

I sit,
alone in my garden of nonsense,
dreaming delirious dreams

"Delirium" – I use that word too much, but what does it really mean?

I sit,
alone in my garden of nonsense,
dreaming delirious dreams


		And then a flash of white insight
			dispelled the confusion
		that had shot through my brain
			made my world sour illusion

		I understood, finally:
			There's nothing that's real
		There's nothing that's final
			Nothing that we feel
		Nothing that we think
			And nothing that we do
		Is more solid than dreams
			Nothing is truly true

		We're all expAnsions of nothing
			Struggling to return
		To get unity, harmony,
			we endlessly yearn
		And it's love and compassion
			that bring us back home
		Extend the soul to another
			and truth becomes known
		
		The mind's contradictions
			will instantly melt
		in the face of compassion
			Love, honestly felt



Truth?   What is truth?

It's all the same, it's different, it's different, it's actually the same after all

I understand nothing, I understand everything, I understand 
everything, I understanding nothing

I sit alone and together, and together and alone, in my garden of my 
nonsense, writing nonsense about  my garden

And beautiful illusions seek me out, strange beauty of the big-
brained beast that I embody, but no more or less than any other 
freaked out soul

The universe dements itself each instant, and that is the only true 
tale.

Can love really cure the dementia, or can it merely palliate it a bit?   
This is the ten-to-the-ninety-fifth particle question.  

The answer is unknowable, of course.  It resides in the flesh of her 
thighs.