There is no path, there is no destination. There is only what is before me. What is before me is me.
Before us, is us.
There is only All, experiencing as me, and you, and cypress trees, wind blowing through their branches, singing of laughter and dance.
There is no beginning and no end, only skin on the tip of a finger, touching snow turned icy. And the sun beaming down, pale and cold, but warm enough to make water.