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Oh, the moments merely walking down the mountain these mornings, following and listening to the water cascading from paddy to paddy toward the lake, and all the way the frogs singing as well in celebration of another new life, it's always new, always, whether for this turning you're a silver stream or a green and moist amphibian on a nameless morning or a guy on two legs ambling down to a train station, it's always new, with sometimes scarlet tsubaki blossoms fallen in the selfsame silken richness by the roadside, warblers amid the cherry blossoms trilling something beyond time about the magic of the dawn and the vast and simple secrets of just being alive to see and hear this, and winding throughout it all the fragrance of the morning mountain herbal liquid forest stream of air and water, light and song, of sunrise gold in turquoise where the moon was silver on jet, with the lake spread out like all the sacred magic of the finest dreams wrapped with mountains all around in a green and crystal chanting that goes on and on for millions of years with no end in sight or heart or mind, there is no end to such moments...