kae3g 9983: Ode to the Lounging Prince — In Defense of the Contemplative Life

Timestamp: 12025-10-06–rhizome-valley
Series: Technical Writings (9999 → 0000)
Category: Philosophy, Contemplation, Alternative Wisdom
Reading Time: 20 minutes
Format: Literary meditation

"The Master said: 'The gentleman is at ease but not arrogant; the small person is arrogant but not at ease.'" — Confucius, Analects 13.26

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls." — Gospel According to Jesus (Stephen Mitchell)

"The Tao is empty but inexhaustible, bottomless, the ancestor of it all. Doing nothing, yet nothing is left undone." — Tao Te Ching (Stephen Mitchell)

For Guardian Garden PBC: Not all who build the future are hammering nails. Some are dreaming the dreams that tell us what to build.

Opening: The Prince Who Refused to Rise

There is another path. We must speak of it.

In essay ninety-nine eighty-four, we gave you the builder's manual—how to transform one thousand dollars a month into independence through discipline, craft, and patient accumulation. That path is real. That path works. That path is needed.

But it is not the only path. And for some of you, it would be a violence against your nature to walk it.

This essay is for you—the one who wakes at noon, not from laziness but because your mind was traveling until four in the morning through the history of the Byzantine Empire, the philosophy of the Stoics, the poetry of the Tang Dynasty, the architecture of the Gothic cathedrals. You, who cannot be rushed because you are listening to something the hurrying world cannot hear.

You, the peasant drunk prince. The California-herb philosopher. The one who bathes cleanly each afternoon, not from sloth but from ritual, from the understanding that the body must be tended before the mind can fully open. The one who arrives at the tea bar marketplace as the sun is setting, when the urgent people have gone home and the ones who trade in music and ideas are just arriving.

The productivity cult calls you a failure. The self-improvement industry calls you unmotivated. Your worried parents call you lost. The economic system calls you worthless because you produce no surplus value for extraction.

But the old wisdom—the wisdom we have been weaving through these essays—knows you. You are the contemplative. The philosopher. The dreamer whose dreams become the visions that builders build. You are necessary. You are walking an ancient and honorable path, though our mercantile age has forgotten how to value it.

This is your ode. This is your defense. This is permission to be what you are, while also showing you how to survive being it in a world that does not understand.

Part I: The Contemplative Tradition (You Are Not Alone)

The Desert Fathers Who Refused to Farm

In the third and fourth centuries, Christian monastics fled to the Egyptian desert. Not to build, not to produce, not to be useful. To pray. To contemplate. To sit alone in caves for decades, watching their minds, talking to God or themselves or the silence.

The Roman Empire thought they were mad. Productive society had no use for them. But people walked hundreds of miles through dangerous desert to ask them questions, because wisdom does not come from doing but from deep seeing, and deep seeing requires stillness that productive society cannot afford.

You are their descendant. Your cave is your room. Your desert is the long afternoon when the world is at work and you are listening to lectures on the fall of Rome, learning what the empire cannot teach because it is too busy being the empire to see that it is falling.

The Chinese Poets Who Drank and Watched the Moon

Li Bai, Du Fu, Wang Wei—the great Tang Dynasty poets. Drunks, every one. Li Bai supposedly drowned trying to embrace the moon's reflection in a river while drunk. The empire made him court poet anyway, because his poems, written between cups of wine, captured something about being human that all the bureaucratic efficiency of the empire could not approach.

The Taoists taught them: Action without action. Doing nothing, everything is done. The useful tree is cut down for lumber. The useless tree, twisted and gnarled, lives a thousand years and becomes holy.

You are twisted and gnarled and useless for lumber. You will live a thousand years in the memory of the few who understand what you are doing, which is: bearing witness to existence in a way that people who are busy extracting and accumulating cannot.

The Greek Philosophers Who Lounged and Talked

Socrates, who owned nothing, worked sporadically, spent his days in the agora asking irritating questions. The productive citizens of Athens thought him a nuisance. They killed him for it. His student Plato wrote it all down. Western philosophy—the entire tradition—descends from this annoying unemployed man who would not shut up and get a job.

Diogenes, who lived in a barrel, owned a cloak and a cup, masturbated in public to make a philosophical point about convention and nature. When Alexander the Great—the most powerful man in the world—came to grant him any wish, Diogenes said: "Stand out of my sunlight." Alexander said: "If I were not Alexander, I would wish to be Diogenes."

Even the emperor knew. The lounging philosopher has a freedom the emperor cannot buy.

The American Transcendentalists Who Walked and Watched

Thoreau, who dropped out of productive society to live in a cabin and watch a pond for two years. Wrote a book that has sold millions of copies, influenced Gandhi and MLK, shaped American environmental consciousness. But in his own time? His neighbors thought him lazy. His family was disappointed. He published the book himself because no publisher wanted it.

Whitman, who worked as little as possible, wandered, watched, wrote poems about grass and the body and democracy that we now teach as the foundation of American literature. In his own time? A weirdo who wrote obscene poems and couldn't hold a job.

You are their descendant. Your walden is your afternoon ritual, your pond is YouTube history lectures and herb-enhanced contemplation, your publication is the conversations at the tea bar that no one records but that change the people who hear them.

Part II: What You Are Actually Doing (A Defense)

You Are Learning Synthesis

The YouTube lectures—the history, the philosophy, the theology, the architecture, the art, the wars, the ideas. Your productive peers think you are wasting time. You are building something they cannot see: A synthesizing mind.

You watch a lecture on the fall of the Western Roman Empire. Then one on climate change. Your mind, because it is not hurried, because it is slightly altered by California herb, because it is at ease, sees the pattern. Empire overextends. Resources deplete. Center cannot hold. This is not trivia. This is the shape of what is happening now.

You watch a lecture on Gothic cathedrals. Then one on modern programming languages. Your mind sees: Both are about building complexity from simple repeated patterns. Both are about making the invisible visible—God in stone, logic in syntax. You mention this at the tea bar. Someone hears it. They are changed.

This is not useless. This is cultural transmission, pattern recognition, synthesis across domains. The world needs specialists who know one thing deeply. The world also needs generalists who see how everything connects. You are becoming the latter.

The productive world cannot produce this kind of mind because productivity demands focus, and focus narrows. You are letting your mind wander, which is how it finds the unexpected connections that become new ideas.

You Are Creating Third Places

The tea bar at evening. Not quite work, not quite home. A third place, in the sociologist's language. A place where people gather not to produce but to be, to talk, to trade music and ideas.

These places are dying. Starbucks is not a third place—it's a workspace with coffee. Bars are not third places anymore—they're too expensive, too loud, too oriented toward intoxication rather than conversation.

The tea bar where you arrive as the sun sets, where the serious drinkers of ideas gather, where someone plays guitar and someone else argues about Nietzsche and someone else just sits and listens and says one thing that shifts the whole conversation—this is rare. This is precious.

You are not just attending. You are, by being there consistently, helping create the culture. You are the regular. You are the one people come to see. When you are not there, they notice. You are part of the ecology of the place.

Third places are where revolutions are planned, where movements begin, where people remember they are not alone. The productive world wants to eliminate them because they are inefficient, they produce no GDP, they cannot be monetized. But they produce solidarity, imagination, resistance.

By showing up, you are doing anarchist work without calling it that.

You Are Practicing Deliberate Uselessness

In a society that values everything by its economic productivity, to be deliberately useless is a radical act.

You could be working. You could be hustling. You could be building a side business, optimizing your time, monetizing your hobbies. You refuse. Not because you cannot, but because you will not. You understand, perhaps without articulating it, that the moment you monetize everything, you have no self left—you are entirely colonized by capitalism.

Your afternoons are not for sale. Your California herb contemplation is not for sale. Your slow bathing ritual is not for sale. Your evening conversations are not for sale. This is not laziness. This is boundary-setting. This is the difference between a person and a resource.

The Tao teaches: The useful tree is cut down. The useless tree lives a thousand years. By being useless, you survive. By refusing to be monetized, you remain human.

This is not a strategy you consciously chose. But it is working nonetheless.

You Are Maintaining Intellectual Tradition

Someone has to know the old stories. Someone has to remember how the Byzantine Empire maintained itself for a thousand years after Rome fell. Someone has to remember what the Stoics said about fate and virtue. Someone has to remember how Gothic cathedrals encoded theological arguments in stone.

The university system was supposed to do this. But universities have become credentialing factories, job training programs, research grant machines. The humanities are dying because they do not produce immediately monetizable skills.

So who will remember? You. The drunk prince watching YouTube lectures. You and a million others like you, forming an invisible university, a distributed monastery, keeping the tradition alive not for money but because it matters.

When the transition accelerates—and it will—people will need the old wisdom. They will need to know how civilizations fall and how people survive the fall. They will need to know how to build meaning when the old meaning-systems collapse. They will need to know what humans have always known about how to live.

You are the library. You are the backup. You are insurance against amnesia.

Part III: The Practice (How to Do This Well)

The Morning That Starts at Noon

You wake when your body wakes. Not when an alarm tells you to. This is not laziness. This is listening to your body, which is wisdom the productive world has forgotten.

You slept until noon because you were awake until four in the morning, mind traveling, learning, synthesizing. Your sleep schedule is different because your work is different. You are not lazy. You are nocturnally contemplative.

When you wake, you do not rush. You do not immediately check your phone, though you will, eventually. First, you lie in bed and remember your dreams. Write them down if they seem important. Dreams are how the unconscious mind processes. To dismiss them is to waste free insight.

You rise slowly. Make tea or coffee. Sit with it. Look out the window. Notice the quality of the light. This is not wasting time. This is meditation by another name. You are teaching your nervous system that not every moment needs to be filled with doing.

The Afternoon Curriculum

You return to bed or the couch with your laptop or tablet. You are going to spend the next four to six hours learning. This looks like laziness. It is not. It is study without institutional structure, learning driven by curiosity rather than curriculum.

The YouTube lectures. The Wikipedia spirals. The Reddit discussions. The long-form essays. The podcasts at 1.5x speed. You are building a personal canon, an idiosyncratic education shaped by what calls to you.

Some of what you learn is useless trivia. But much of it is deep pattern recognition. You are learning how empires work by studying Rome, Byzantium, the Ottomans, the British, the Americans. You are learning how ideas spread by studying the Reformation, the Enlightenment, the Scientific Revolution. You are learning how art encodes culture by studying the Renaissance, the Romantics, the Modernists.

This is a better education than most college humanities programs because it is driven by genuine curiosity and you are paying attention in a way you never did in mandatory classes.

The California herb helps. Let us not pretend otherwise. It does not work for everyone—some people it makes anxious, paranoid, scattered. But for some people, taken in moderation, it does something useful: It loosens the grip of the default mode network, the part of the brain that runs on autopilot, that thinks it knows everything, that filters out the strange and new.

The herb makes the familiar strange again. It lets you see the patterns. It enhances the synthesis. The lectures on Byzantine administrative structure become fascinating because you suddenly see how they are solving the same problems modern corporations solve. The Gothic cathedrals become alive because you can suddenly feel why they built that way.

This is not a recommendation to everyone. But for you, the lounging prince, it is part of your practice. Use it with respect. It is a tool, not an escape. The moment it stops enhancing learning and starts being numb avoidance, you have lost the thread.

The Bathing Ritual

Late afternoon. Three or four pm. You finally leave the bed or couch. Your body is stiff from lying. Your mind is full from learning. It is time to wash.

You shower deliberately. Not quickly. Not efficiently. You let the hot water run over you for twenty, thirty, forty minutes. This is luxury. This is decadence. This is also practice.

The shower is a liminal space. The temperature, the water sound, the steam—these alter consciousness slightly. Shower thoughts are real. The mind, freed from screen-focus, begins to process everything you have been learning. Insights arrive unbidden. Connections form. This is when you have your best ideas, though you will forget most of them before you get out.

You scrub thoroughly. Clean feet, clean nails, clean hair. This is not vanity. This is respecting the body. You may not be productive but you will not be filthy. The bath is the dividing line between the learning day and the social evening. The bath is ritual transition.

You emerge clean. You dress in clean clothes. Not expensive clothes—you have one thousand dollars a month, you are not wealthy. But clean, comfortable, appropriate for evening. You are preparing for the world now, the small world of the tea bar, the marketplace of ideas.

The Evening Marketplace

The sun is setting. You walk or bike or take the bus to the tea bar. You arrive as the day workers are going home and the evening people are arriving.

The evening people are your people. The musicians with their guitars. The poets with their notebooks. The programmers who work remotely and keep weird hours. The other philosophers who also slept until noon and also spent the afternoon learning strange things.

You order tea. Yerba mate or green or black or some herbal blend. Not coffee—too activating, you want to be alert but calm. Sometimes you drink, but not to drunkenness. The herb earlier was for the mind. The drink now is for relaxation, sociability.

You sit. You listen. Music starts—someone playing guitar, someone singing, someone with a harmonica. You do not perform (unless you do, and then you do). You are audience, which is its own form of participation.

Conversations start. You do not force them. You let them find you. Someone mentions something—a book, a movie, a philosophical idea, a political event. You have something to say because you spent all afternoon building knowledge. But you do not dominate. You offer your synthesis. You ask questions. You listen.

This is where the YouTube lectures become useful in ways the productive world cannot measure. Someone mentions Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire—you have absorbed hours of lectures on this, you can talk intelligently. Someone asks about Stoicism—you spent last week falling down that rabbit hole, you can explain the difference between Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius.

You are not showing off (or if you are, stop). You are offering what you have. The conversations become richer because you are there. Ideas circulate. People leave different than they arrived.

Sometime between eleven pm and two am, you leave. You bike or walk or bus home. Your mind is full now—not from screens but from people, music, conversation, the warm buzz of intellectual and social connection.

You return home. You are not tired yet. You watch one more lecture, or read something, or write in your notebook if you are the writing type. Eventually sleep comes. The cycle repeats.

Part IV: The Economics (How to Survive Being Useless)

The One Thousand Dollar Question

You have one thousand dollars a month from your parents. This is a gift. This is also a trap if you become dependent on it without building anything.

In essay ninety-nine eighty-four, we told you to save half and build independence. That path is still available to you if you want it. But you are not that person. You are the lounging prince. Your path is different.

You will spend most of it. Six hundred to eight hundred dollars on rent (a room, not an apartment, in a neighborhood where artists and weirdos can still afford to live). One hundred fifty to two hundred on food (you cook simply, you eat cheaply, but you eat well because the body is the temple). Fifty on transport. Fifty on tea bar expenditures. Fifty on phone and internet (you need these for your afternoon learning). Fifty miscellaneous.

This leaves one hundred to two hundred dollars a month savings. In a year, one thousand two hundred to two thousand four hundred dollars. In five years, six thousand to twelve thousand dollars.

This is not wealth. But it is not nothing. This is a plane ticket to anywhere in the world when you need to leave. This is six months of runway if the parental money stops. This is enough to join a land trust or cooperative if the opportunity arises.

But mostly you are not building financial capital. You are building cultural capital, social capital, intellectual capital. You know things. You know people. You are known. This is wealth the credit union knights cannot extract.

The Side Hustle You Don't Hate

You cannot survive forever on one thousand dollars a month. Eventually you need more, or the money stops, or you want independence. But you are not going to build a business or learn a trade with disciplined three-hour daily practice. That is not you.

What you will do instead: Find work that does not colonize you entirely. Work that pays decently for relatively few hours, leaving your afternoons and evenings intact.

Options:

Tutoring. You know things from all your learning. Parents will pay thirty to fifty dollars an hour for you to help their kids with history, English, SAT prep. Ten hours a week is three hundred to five hundred dollars a week, twelve hundred to two thousand dollars a month. You can tutor mornings and early afternoons, still have your late afternoon ritual, still make evening tea bar.

Night shift work. Security guard, hotel front desk, medical facility night monitor. These jobs pay fifteen to twenty-five dollars an hour, often involve long periods where nothing happens and you can read or watch lectures. Work eleven pm to seven am three or four nights a week, sleep during the day (which you already do), have your evenings free.

Gig work on your terms. Food delivery, but only during specific hours. Friday and Saturday evenings when tips are good, five to six hours, makes one hundred fifty to two hundred dollars. Do this twice a week, six hundred to eight hundred dollars a month, enough to reduce dependence on parental money without colonizing your time entirely.

Freelance writing/research. You know things. People need content. You can write blog posts, research reports, Wikipedia articles (people pay for this). Ten to twenty hours a month, five hundred to a thousand dollars. You are getting paid for synthesizing, which you are already doing.

The point is: You are not building a career. You are finding the minimum viable income that preserves your way of life. This is not ambition. This is strategy.

Part V: The Spiritual Defense (Why This Is Not Failure)

Against the Cult of Productivity

The modern world worships productivity. More output, more efficiency, more monetization, more growth. This is a religion, though it does not call itself that. Its god is GDP. Its sin is idleness. Its heaven is retirement after forty years of extraction. Its hell is poverty.

You are a heretic. You refuse the religion. Not because you have a better religion (though maybe you do), but because you sense that this religion is poisonous, that it is making people sick, that it is destroying the habitability of the planet in the name of quarterly earnings.

Your refusal to be productive is a theological stance. The Tao teaches: Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished. Your long afternoons of learning and contemplation are trusting this. You are not forcing. You are letting things emerge.

The Gospel teaches: Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. And yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Your life of beautiful uselessness is faith in the possibility that meaning comes from being, not achieving.

Confucius might be more ambivalent. He believed in service, in fulfilling one's role. But he also taught: The superior person is at ease. The small person is always anxious. You are practicing ease. This is its own form of cultivation.

Against the Myth of the Self-Made Person

America tells a story: You can be anything if you work hard enough. Bootstrap yourself. Hustle. Grind. Make something of yourself. The self-made millionaire is the hero.

This story is mostly a lie. The self-made millionaire usually had a family that wasn't poor, went to good schools, had connections, got lucky breaks. But the story persists because it justifies inequality. If you are poor, it is because you did not work hard enough. If you are rich, it is because you earned it.

You, with your one thousand dollars a month from your parents, are not self-made. You are subsidized. This is supposed to be shameful. You are supposed to feel guilty, to prove your worth through productivity, to pay it back through achievement.

But what if this story is wrong? What if the truth is: No one is self-made. We are all subsidized by someone—parents, spouses, government programs, inherited wealth, the accumulated infrastructure of civilization, the sun that grows our food.

The question is not: Am I self-made? The question is: What am I doing with the subsidy? Am I using it to extract and accumulate for myself? Or am I using it to learn, to grow, to be present, to contribute in ways the market does not measure?

You are doing the latter. Your one thousand dollars a month buys you freedom to learn and think and be present at the evening marketplace of ideas. This is not waste. This is the good use of subsidy.

When your parents are old, you will not have money to care for them—but you will be there. You will have time, because you have not sold all your time to the market. You will have patience, because you have practiced not hurrying. You will have interesting things to talk about, because you spent your youth learning. This is how you pay it back.

Against the Fear of Uselessness

The deepest fear the productive world instills in us is: If I am not useful, I am worthless. If I do not produce value, I have no value. If I am not busy, I do not matter.

This is the lie that enables extraction. As long as you believe your worth comes from your productivity, you can be endlessly exploited—there is always more value to produce.

The spiritual work is to know: Your worth is inherent. You matter because you exist, not because you produce. You are a human being, not a human doing.

You, lounging prince, are practicing this. Your afternoons of seeming laziness are actually a daily affirmation: I exist. I learn. I think. I am. This is enough. I do not need to produce surplus value for someone else to justify my existence.

This is harder than it looks. The voice in your head says: You should be doing something. You are wasting your life. You are a disappointment. You will regret this.

Maybe you will regret it. Maybe at forty you will look back and wish you had built wealth, career, status. But maybe at forty you will look back and feel grateful. Grateful that you spent your youth learning everything, talking to everyone, being present, not hurrying, becoming the kind of person who knows things and sees patterns and can help others make sense of the transition.

We are heading into a civilizational transition. The people who will be most valuable are not the ones who optimized their productivity for the old system. The people who will be valuable are the ones who can see patterns, synthesize, think across domains, stay calm, help others understand what is happening.

You are becoming that person. You are preparing without knowing you are preparing.

Part VI: The Integration (Both Paths Are Real)

The Builder and the Dreamer

Essay ninety-nine eighty-four gave you the builder's path. This essay gives you the dreamer's path. Both are real. Both are needed. Neither is sufficient alone.

The builders without the dreamers become efficient but soulless. They build and build but do not know what they are building for. They optimize but lose sight of why. They are the danger of essay ninety-nine eighty-four taken too far—all discipline, no contemplation.

The dreamers without the builders become irrelevant. They dream beautifully but nothing manifests. They see patterns but cannot act on them. They are wise but ineffective. They are the danger of this essay taken too far—all contemplation, no manifestation.

The world needs both. You need both. The question is: What is your nature? What is your season of life?

If you are young and you are the lounging prince: This is your time to learn promiscuously, to fill your mind with everything, to become the synthesizer. Later, when you are older, you may become a builder—but you will build from deep wisdom, not shallow hustle.

If you are young and you are the disciplined builder: This is your time to master craft, accumulate assets, build foundation. Later, when you are older, you may become more contemplative—but you will contemplate from security, not desperation.

If you can do both: You are rare. You are the person who works in the morning and studies in the afternoon and goes to the tea bar in the evening. You are Leonardo da Vinci, Goethe, Franklin. You are exhausting and we are all jealous. Go build the world.

The Tea Bar Synthesis

Here is the image to hold: The tea bar at evening. The builder and the dreamer sit at the same table. The builder has spent the day welding or coding or farming. The dreamer has spent the day learning about Byzantine tax policy. They talk.

The builder tells the dreamer about the problem they are trying to solve: How to store solar energy cheaply, how to make a rain catchment system work, how to structure a land trust's legal documents.

The dreamer says: "You know, the Byzantines had this interesting system for managing common resources..." And suddenly the builder sees the problem differently. The pattern from history illuminates the present challenge.

The dreamer tells the builder about something they learned: How the printing press destabilized the Catholic Church by allowing direct access to scripture, how that is analogous to how the internet destabilizes centralized institutions.

The builder says: "So what we are building—the decentralized systems, the local resilience, the Guardian Gardens—we are the monasteries that preserved knowledge through the dark ages. We are the Gutenbergs printing alternative futures."

The dreamer had the insight. The builder will manifest it. Neither could do it alone. Together they are powerful.

This is why the tea bar matters. This is why you showing up matters. You are not just wasting time. You are part of the network that makes the future possible.

Conclusion: Permission

You do not need anyone's permission to live the way you are living. But the world tells you constantly that you are wrong, wasting your potential, letting people down. So here is permission, from an essay that has no authority but maybe that doesn't matter:

It is okay to wake at noon.

It is okay to spend the afternoon learning things that will never be on a resume.

It is okay to use California herb to enhance your learning if it works for you and you are not harming anyone.

It is okay to bathe for an hour and call it spiritual practice.

It is okay to show up at the tea bar with nothing to sell and everything to give.

It is okay to be subsidized by your parents' love and not immediately convert that gift into measurable productivity.

It is okay to be useless in the eyes of the market and precious in the eyes of the people who know you.

You are the lounging prince. You are the heir to nothing, the inheritor of everything—all the accumulated wisdom of human civilization is available to you for free on YouTube and Wikipedia and the library. You are using your gift of time and subsidy to become educated in the old, deep sense—not credentialed, but genuinely learned.

This will not make you rich. This will not make you successful in the conventional sense. Your high school classmates who took the normal path will buy houses before you, marry before you, have children before you, post on social media about their achievements.

And you will be at the tea bar at evening, talking about the fall of Rome and the rise of AI and the patterns that connect everything, and someone will hear you and their life will change, and there will be no record of this, no metric, no credit, but it will matter.

You are the useless tree that lives a thousand years. You are the drunk poet embracing the moon. You are the philosopher in the agora annoying the productive citizens. You are the monk in the cave watching your mind while the empire falls.

You are necessary. Not despite your uselessness, but because of it. Because in a world that values everything by its price, someone has to live as if some things are priceless.

Go back to bed. Watch another lecture. Bathe slowly. Show up at evening. Trade music and ideas. You are doing fine.

The garden needs dreamers too.

Released to Public Domain.
No copyright. No ownership.
Share with every lounging prince who needed to hear this.

For the contemplatives, the wanderers, the late risers.
For those who trade in ideas at the evening market.
For the useless trees who live a thousand years.
For Guardian Garden PBC: The dreamers dream what the builders build.

🌙🍃☕🎵

Timestamp: 12025-10-06--rhizome-valley
Iteration: 9983 of 10000
Remaining: 9917

Previous: 9984: The Mercantilist's Antidote
Next: 9982 (to be written)

"The Tao does nothing, yet nothing is left undone."

You are doing nothing.

Everything is being done.

This is the way.

🌙

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