All the stars of the sky: the penumbra, such that the blackness of the void is accentuated by punctuations, that the brightness makes the darkness seem all the more important, and conversely, the darkness gives importance and solemnity to the light.
Such as smiling on a morning, in the beautiful illuminating sunlight. Without the preceding darkness, the light has no sweetness, and then also, factored-in, what is to come.
Dissipations and random usurpings and so forth, having it and on of things, people, and those people's things, such that, as it is, using is less sweet when that is the mean or mode, and charity is less sweet when it is the only way.
Such is the tao, the contrasts and the definition laying like fog in the middle; that too, definition, such as muscular definition, and fog, that which is without definition, lie in harmony, and somewhere in between, we sense, but cannot put the words the Tao, the truth.
It is not on the ground.
It is not up the mountain.
Along the way, however, you will sense it and agree, without being able to put it into words.
Somewhere in the universe so vast, there might be a speculum or caliper that could probe the truth and put it to a term that has definition, but would we recognize it? Would we protest that it was yet something else, and the measurement itself must be wrong? Demonize the measuring committee of scientists?
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