One for the Eremetic Tradition

One comes to the mountains to research the empty mind, turning over very slowly the sound of whales laughing. One spies out the true recluse, not amid the pines and chill, but languishing in university, a scholar sounding in the night. One returns home full of nothing, ceaselessly revels in the internal outside groping with change in the sea; the tide is a weal of destiny.