The yellow heart sits in the belly.
Rising, it attains Heaven.

I am still idealistic and will "follow my bliss" and encourage others to do the same.


Scrupulously, scrupulously,
One day, three sacrifices;
The ox is the omen:
A plump one is not advantageous.

I can still get excited about and let my art be influenced by the White Buffalo without exploiting it for material gain. Being "integral" is knowing what is appropriate.


Scrupulously, scrupulously,
The sacrifice is plump,
But without a body.

Sacrifice is what it is all about. I'm even willing to sacrifice what some would call "sanity" to follow my dreams which in a sense are not "real" at all. How else can dreams be made real? How else can people share their dreams? How can we grow and mature as a society without a healthy dialog about the unconscious with the very symbols derived from the unconscious?

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