I’m visiting someone in Birmingham. I don’t know where the house is. At the station, a taxi takes me where I need to go. For free.
The universe is helping me.
People run into the road. We drive around them, and they vanish. They are illusions. Clouds gather, and the road floods. I tell the driver, and the woman in the back seat, that it’s not as bad as it looks. I become aware of my sphere of influence over reality. I can control reality up to the edge of my physical perception. I start to clear the clouds, and bring out the sun.
I’m in a large stately home in the country. A Buddhist retreat. I talk with the lama. He’s a small child, yet speaks like an old, wise, man.
He dips a joss stick in a honey like substance. It is lit. The smoke expands the honey, and builds up into a dense fog, until enough pressure is built up and it seeps out of the end.
It’s an allegory for the things that cloud our aura. A cloud within a cloud. Self perpetuating and consuming with hate and anger.
The Lama says: “look, two ghosts are dancing.” And I see two robotic Chinese characters, dancing and smoking.
A monk comes to the lama. I think he needs his nappy changing. He doesn’t. The monk mentions recharging him later. I look at the lamas back. He is a robot. There’s a panel on his back for exchanging rechargeable power packs.
He explains that he is a robot, and I am a man. I point to his chest, and tell him that though he is not made of flesh, his love and compassion are what make him human. I cry.
A walled city. I find a little used exit, to leave and return. It may not be safe, but it is not as busy, or as policed, as the official exits.
I’m back at the monastery. A gang of evildoers is planning to kidnap the lama. Robots rise to defend him and are destroyed. A battle that the lama wins.
I have to leave. He comes to say goodbye. I kneel and bow at his feet, crying. The other monks tell me off, it will confuse him.
I know him better than that, this perfect, Robot Buddha.