I picked up in a flier my soul is a hypothesis. Since the soul thrives in new enterprises and ecologies, you and I begged its wiggly self to swim further and stick with a sublimely experimental school of thought, to rally for more than this textual ceramic holding sprays of looking glass.
Sudden lightning over fogs of drizzle. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — 

You and I went for all 3 doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.   
 
Three ways could also be the middle,   
 
since Buddha and Buddhists are different things.