I do not think the long-range bullets I fire provide the mark of a man; I am only dimly aware that they are dehumanising me.They are my opium tto see me through my time here. But with each hit they give, they only provide a feeling respite from the past I cannot escape from and thre present I have chosen to mire myself in. And, grounded as I am in the reality of this hill, I do not yet fully appreciate how this addiction is infecting my future with malediction.With this clinical, psychopathically detached behaviour considered as normal, proper and expected on this hall, I cannot yet stop to think - because I cannot allow myself to here - of how hese respites may be blackening my soul in all the time I will have left on my own back Home - should I even live through the remainder of my months here, in some other corner of this Hell of a country.

The illusion, as ego suggests, is that it's about time - mechanical mind; it is not. It is, however, all about conscious space - something [the] soul has always known.

Only once in a while you become aware of your intrinsic nature, with sudden bursts of empty spaces, without any effort on your part, you come home, rejoice every breath so deep and so soothing, you relax, unfocused, you skip into timelessness. This is the greatest mystery, the greatest gift of existence, without any identification to your senses, no clutches of your old patterns of mind. Few Glimpses of Heaven on the earth! I have experienced, have you?