Who decides who is a dope, and who is not?
Is it important, who is who?
Perhaps all men are dopes.
Only some more so than others.
I feel benign, tonight, and so regard you all my tiresome children.
A pain, to be sure, made cosy by warm sake wine.
Even so, the slim hope of a slim future, by some slim chance, attainable.
My time was then, is now, with or without, slim hope.
It is well that none of you know anything.
There is nothing to know.
There is only what is. Made so by what was.
Combined to become what will be.
What will be, arrives as what is, and already what was.
And none of it recorded, beyond a moment.
Mad youth, aches of age, dust of always.
All you could ever do, was smile.