Every word is subject to the mind's mould. The reproach in the foreign condemned sentence, of one's own image unpleasantness struck, decrees the way without permission. Not to do it is incumbent on the countenance to the other. Two souls in one's own breast are in conflict of opinion, the utterance of withholding by no means praised. Opinion of what is felt assumes the other's incorrectness in correctness. The conclusion of the reversal is not the last. Experience, lived through by oneself, leads to guessing, lingers as a waiting cloud over all results. But who goes the way? Arguing, (wanting to) be right, the action of an immortalisation in the black box of dead events. Criticism in the displeasure of the inevitability of only the play of words. The mind deceives, in every moment of expression. Becoming passing away in being, the struggle remains in the hit or hit. Only a rogue speaks of love in such aloofness. The doing of any of one's own is far removed from the experience of the other, until dying also permeates that death which constantly shows itself. Nothing is truer than letting be. Letting be.
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