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28 DEC 72 - Most all my adult life I have been convinced that, with the death of the physical form, one is closed absolutely and forever in a tomb of oblivion. Yet in recent years I have become aware of a growing body of evidence that this is not the case, that in fact some consciousness, perhaps even some personality, persists beyond the grave or funeral pyre. Perhaps, indeed, for some, to die is to wake from dreaming.

I write for myself alone. And yet it is possible I give expression for others whose vision is not yet petrified by certainty about the nature of things, who find like me that our being is one of great mystery, that runs like a gurgling, sparkling stream, leaping, splashing, and bounding through the stony channels of life, suddenly welling up, unexpectedly flashing brilliantly, or placidly, peacefully simply providing nurture and sustenance to unguessed billions and billions of facets of life and reality, simply being, in unfathomable depths, before our consciousness, in the shimmer of time, floats us along beyond, into the next surprise in the stream.

Man is like a book called "God," with a plain dust cover. Everyone takes the dust cover for the book and assumes there is nothing there of real value. So few even open to the title page.

29 DEC 72 - Ricky stopped by. He and Mona have finally separated; and he has taken an apartment on his own. He is very depressed, at loose ends. I feel, though, that this was a positive move. Now at last things can begin to improve. He can gradually put her behind him. Here's to new beginnings, for Ricky and all of us, in the new year.

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