It is raining outside. What if there is no one else to read not just this, but anything whatsoever, other than a persistent and deeply fake illusion.
What if other people and other beings out there are completely empty and illusory.
And the real reason why you don't have any creative thing to share, or the motivation to create writing or painting or creative art work or photo work and sending it to people and making logical statements and seemingly nice words and creations of beauty during the absence of time and heaven is because it is evident that there are no other beings out there other than thunder and lightning and raining cats and soggy wet jeans in the light green turbanish gibberish.
One continues directly into the homage of intrinsic awareness which is the primordial base and dunes of reality which remains unpertubed in phenomenality, in self perfected spontaneaity.
wow, this reads nice, says whom.
knows by whom.
there is no knowledge other than the knower itself
nothing to know other than the knower itself
knowledge is the knower itself.
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