Once again we ride these beasts to the said tributary of un-originality, where we will watch them drink, where we ourselves will drink, as Christ did with closed eyes and beard dripping, where he has and we will urinate what our bodies did not want, and on down the delta Buddha speaks between handfuls of nourishment and excrement, cupping his stubby fingers he sips without second thought, touching holy lip and tongue, all the while his purity never eluding him, who speaks not of an originality that lies in one man alone, no beast or tree, earth or stone, but instead in all things equally as one, where each is granted right to express by any medium, his thought which is not his, such as opening a window and allowing others to look in, as well as for himself to look out among their faces, reflecting their own remembrance of that chord within.