yes, yes, with your yellowish skin, you enjoy meditating within the shape of a wishbone, inside the broken wing of an oriental bird strayed, or in a larger sense, you look like the surfacing tail of a pacific whale who yells low, but whose voice reaches afar far beyond a whole continent, to a remote village near the yellow river, where you used to sunbathe rice stems, reed leaves, cotton skeletons with a fork made of a single horn-shaped twig when you were a barefooted country boy on the other side of this new world
