Who designed the way we imbibe stories? Who made the innocent hardware that writes the stories' bits to memory?
Who is the I that has to live the bits prescribed? Am I the organizing principle, the result of the script titled "ego?"
When I look at the hardware and software of who I am, who's looking?
When I think of revising the script, am I the ego?
If I don't like what the ego is doing, how it looks, and how it feels, who is the I that doesn't like what it sees? Who's the boss here anyway?
"Whooo, whooo, are you?" screeches the owl, as it flies off silently without answering.
Down the road the rain has stopped. The sun is glimmering through a rainbow. The beauty is self evident. No one sees the beauty, but it is there.