
U.
R.
This.

U.
R.
This.

The Eyes.
Watching The Sunset.
Are not separate from The Sunset.
The Eyes.
The Sunset.
Not separate from The Entirety.
Not separate from Reality.
Not separate from This.

All is Grace.

Each and every.
Apparent thing.
Is the Expression of Nature.

There is nothing.
That does not belong.

The entirety.
Of this very moment.
Happens by itself.
And is therefore.
Nothing other than.
Utter perfection.

Each tree.
Grows.
Without a doer.
Leaves open.
Fruit ripens.
Without a doer.
So too.
The human being.
There is no doer.
There is no separate self.

There is no becoming.
Everything is already This.
This is already Everything.

There is nothing but This.
All that apparently arises.
Its Expression.

That feeling.
Arising right now.
Is as impersonal.
As the wind.