The invisible Tao hand stirring at the works, working at stirring.

 Ever had a number break your back?  I mean like, to enumerate suffering itself, as of an elderly mother fart, where you can say, of a certainty, it is bad.  And then, to yourself, "am I dead?"  

"I know this is not heaven, unless the smell has wafted up to us."

But know, I do not pretend to know, but I've sensed something, and from there passed into the innumerable.

The Tao.

There is the innumerable.

The broken back of nomenclature itself, as of the old way, to know, but only communicate in context.  "Carry your gun to the barn, son."  Or some such.  That we crushed the Oxford English Dictionary under a stylish yet entirely comfortable niche shoe.  And Bill Barr now has time to contemplate the indefinite qualities of the Tao, let those brush his felicities, dance so lightly across the ivories as not to chime but a single note, and of yet, to have crossed the keyboard entire.

Why, its all shifting sands and looking for glass bottles in the dirt, so forth other activities, spitting in the wind, for all we could transmit the Tao, but we can feel it, just as two or more and the Tao gathered, but made ephemeral because of myriad chirpings, talks of dinner, popular films, Traylor Smift lyrics, and other such.  Neigh, the whole thing rather obscured nicely as of a rising fog as the rays of the sun burn the land, is the Tao ensconced and rather safely disguised as an elderly mother fart.

Disguised like two-stage paint, perhaps, where there is that "finishing touch" that is crucial for so long, but vaporous to our senses.  That clearcoat layer that is important but almost like the invisible hand stirring at the works, working at a stirring.

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