Contemplating dying, I'm not concerned about “my self”; I feel sorry for my hands, sorry for my feet; for everything in between! I often sit back and listen to the madrigal of my hands; its ten voices, and I watch, attentively, my feet with their ten little drummer boys pounding the path. I listen, in awe, to their chief; the bass drum inside the rib cage; insistent, fierce, enduring and I hear the wheezing of the rivers and streams of the cardiovascular matrix, while from afar, inside my Vipashyana practice, I see my thoughts butterfly about over the summery meadow of mind, which registers, in the distance, a motorbike gearing up out on the highway in a remote auditive likeness of a housefly behind the curtain deep in someone's recollection of childhood, and downstairs Glenn Gould is humming over his keyboard where The Goldberg Variations reside.