Free Vaseline Buddha by Jung Young Moon

everyone who sat in the nonsmoking section died, could be a mathematical event, and thought about the breed of dog called Russell Terrier, developed by Reverend Jack Russell of England as a fox hunting dog, which was good at digging the ground and catching mice and liked to romp around, and thought about or tried not to think about a life of writing,in which writing, which was clearly not a healing process, but seemed, though it wasn’t clear if it was, to be a process of maintaining a symptom or the aggravation of a symptom, and wondered why I used certain words or phrases repeatedly in my writing, and why I felt pleasure in doing so, but didn’t know why exactly, and so felt that it had something to do with making something burst like a bubble, and felt that repeated use of words or phrases resulted in something like bubbles in writing, and wondered if the pleasure I felt in watching these bubbles weren’t like the pleasure I felt in quietly watching countless bubbles form in water, and wondered what to think of myself, who some time previously had decided not to write anymore, and yet was still writing, and thought above all about everyday life which was almost always seriously and severely tedious, and thought about the fact that my biggest problem was that I couldn’t really get excited about anything, and thought about my chronic problems that mostly arose from bad habits, and thought that music, which had no part in my everyday life, could stay out of my everyday life, and recalled how I thought that we were all going past ourselves toward ourselves, as I parted ways with a cow I encountered on the road one day and gave apricots to, and, above all, thought about myself, who wasn’t eternal, who thought about things that weren’t eternal, and thought about things that I could make my own by imagining them instead of experiencing them firsthand, making them mine even more completely by doing so, and thought about the things I did even without any enthusiasm, and thinking about the life I’ve lived so far, and changing the expression to the path I’ve walked so far, thought about how smooth ornot smooth the path has been, and thinking about the things that made up my everyday life, thought about how they made up my everyday life, and above all, thinking that I was repeatedly using the expression above all in a nearly meaningless way in this story, thought that these thoughts I was having now could be included and further developed in what I was writing, and thought about endlessly going on with such sentences, and writing a novel by doing so, and above all, feeling tempted to make and commit intentional mistakes in my writing, and thought about whether or not it was possible to make intentional mistakes (are mistakes something that can’t occur through intention, and can they be committed only unintentionally? Is an intentional mistake a contradiction that’s logically invalid?), and thought about a contradictory story that’s logically invalid, and thought that what’s important is what kind of a story is placed in what kind of a context, and thought about the question of placing a story in a nonsensical context in my writing, and thought about confusing up my own memories and tangling up the stories, and thought that even if someone read what I wrote and found pleasure in it, the result was something I hadn’t intended at all, and thought about thoughts that could be thought in different ways depending on how you thought about them could be thought to a greater extent the more you thought about them, or thought endlessly, and thought that you exist or don’t exist to the extent that you think, and thought about things that make no difference at all whether or not you say they’re such and such, and thought that there was nothing but language with which you could play around as you pleased, and in this way, I could make and add to an endless list of things I