my dear friend sent me this beautiful poem from the eighth century:

they ask the way to cold mountain.
cold mountain: there's no trail.
in summer, ice doesn't melt
the rising sun blurs in swirling fog.
how did i make it?
my heart's not the same as yours.
if your heart was like mine
you'd get it and be right here.
- han-shan

feel free to leave comments in my new improved guestbook.