Ah sweet Lotus Blossom, come now and sit at the Zen-masters feet. A firey comet has entered your ear but has not yet exploded. Come. Let us together watch the TV.

Ah so, see, young Lotus, the little boy rides the camel while the heavenly orb of golden light ends it journey in the great mountains of the west. Ah, the boy does not look upon the setting sun, the boy is tired. Riding camels is not fun. Fair Lotus, have you ever ridden a camel all day? Great soreness comes to the part of you where you sit. I'd sooner give alms to a habitual blasaphemer than ride a soft-humped camel around a middling sized folding tent.

And think, little flower, of the little boy who rides the camel, what adventure, what exotic terrain, what an ordeal to find drinkable water, what poverty, what disease, what a dessert waste of a human mind who by the constraints and antiquity of his birth culture will be forever bound in this human zoo where he can live out the rest of his days building quaint little dung fires for warmth, and eating quaint little insects for food, while the larger world watches his miserable life go by on TV and says "how lovely, how quaint".


You may now arise Little Blossom. No! Do not kiss my feet! I am disgusted with you. You are pampered. Come back when you have found equal love for the less fortunate.

Ommmmmmmmmm.