My name: I have no name.
My age: I have no age.
My method: I merely listen.
My realization: My ears hear the sounds I play for them.
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I am playing for them some Epsom, whose music sometimes enters the realm of non-music, a.k.a. the door of the non-duality of the Buddha. Then — robes off, jeans on — back to the shadows of ego & vanity, all slaps of tense harpsichords clacking against cherubim butt-cheeks. But most likely it’s a vase on a marble countertop full of fresh flowers: