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The Monks
They chase what cannot be held. Laughter rises, like incense in the morning. Nothing is missing, nothing is late. Wisdom wears the face of play.
When did you last laugh without reason?
How would the sacred meet you as play?
Stillness · Transformation · Fire
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They chase what cannot be held. Laughter rises, like incense in the morning. Nothing is missing, nothing is late. Wisdom wears the face of play.
When did you last laugh without reason?
How would the sacred meet you as play?