Wanting something obscures the fact that I lack nothing.
Nothing fans the flames of desire like I-am-the-body consciousness. The man who thinks he’s a body is a rolling appetite. His eyes tell the story.
Doctors cited organ failure but the real COD was an excess of pleasure.
Nothing wrecks a man more efficiently than the pursuit of la dolce vita.
There is no problem with pleasure, none whatsoever. Until we want more of it. And then, furred and coal-eyed, there it is, a scurry of pain, of not having what we want.
Let come what comes, let go what goes.