Nothing is everything, and everything is nothing.

Open your eyes and open the blinds.
The sights and scents flow faucet-like, never ending.
The trees aren't so high after all.
(I've) got everything, but the gatekeeper brings more than
I can chew.

There is no right.
There is no wrong.
Only thoughts floating in an endless pool of being.
Is it defined by meaning, or drifting just the same?

As thoughts are living and life is but a thought,
constantly rowing gently down the stream

... life is but a dream.