Getting beneath the mask

Getting beneath the mask

Damascus House talk: 14 August 1996


Most of the material today is taken either from the Far Eastern sources where the representation of the Buddha is, by preference, given to the manifestations in ordinary life, and the Indian tradition where the direction is on to going into the depths and finding something new there. To sum it up in one phrase, the Japanese tradition, you can think of it like this: it’s a stream. On that stream is a ball floating, never sinking, floating. As the stream moves along, it becomes waterfalls, whirlpools but calm the ball always remains because it doesn’t attach itself to anything. It doesn’t try to hang on to anything, it turns freely. In the Indian tradition, it’s not so much the moving surface as the depth. Those traditions speak of masks. There are masks in the world, and we ourselves have masks. It’s important to recognise the falsity of the masks of the world. The most important thing is to pierce through our own mask and find out what we really are underneath the mask of the devil. Underneath the devil mask, perhaps there’s a mask of a bodhisattva. Underneath that, through that, the world, it says, goes by masks, by unrealities.

There’s a story, it may be historical, it may not be, but it’s worth considering. Catherine the Great of Russia, the base soul of the Russian people – she was a German actually. A bit like Lizst. If ever there was a man who symbolised and represented in himself the spirit of Hungary, that was Lizst. He left Hungary when he was seven years old, and he couldn’t speak Hungarian. Edvard Grieg – Norway. He had Scottish ancestry. His great-great grandfather was Scottish Greig, and his father Alexander was the British Vice-Consul. These are masks, but we rather like them. Provided we know they’re masks, it may not do any particular harm.

Catherine, when she was at the height of her power, the minister, Potemkin used to supervise her coach drives of inspection across the country. The villages she passed, the better off peasants were made to stand in front of her cleanly dressed. The poor were hidden behind the houses. Potemkin also, on fine days, along the route, would put on a hilltop gaily painted red and white, little chalets, most attractive, new, a sign of prosperity. Actually, they were made of cardboard. There was nothing there. Red, yellow, bright colours. She would pass below and see them from the road. “Oh, yes!” Well, a courtier who didn’t like Potemkin bribed the coachman.

One time the story goes, she was driving along, and the coachman then left the road and went across the fields, up to one of these little gaily painted cottages, and drove right through it. It was only cardboard. Catherine sat there grimly for the rest of the journey. When they got back, she ordered the coachmen to be whipped. She said furiously to the courtier, “How dare you think I did not know!” Of course, she knew. It was all an elaborate charade, so to speak, of masks. The point a particular teacher was making was that we must find our own mask, turning within, in meditation.

We shall find a mask of thoughts, and fears, and little trivial memories of the past day, and look through that mask. It’s moving all the time. To look steadily through, and we shall come to something deeper. Long-held ideas, prejudices, anxieties, ambitions, loves and hates, long-held: we think, ‘That’s me.’ No, to look through, that too is moving. To look through so that it becomes thinner and thinner. We can look through as it becomes thinner, and we can catch a glimpse of what is beyond. The [enlightened] teachers want us to practise these things ourselves. Not just to believe there is something there, but to practise something which, underneath the fast-moving, underneath the slow, thinned out, a glimpse of immortality. Everything is dying, all this is dying. This is dying slowly. There is something undying, which doesn’t change. To catch a glimpse of immortality in this very life. People say, “Oh, we can’t know about immortality because nobody ever comes back to tell you.” No, but there can be a glimpse of immortality in this very life. When a person’s had even a glimpse, then when death comes: ‘I have been here before.’

This is what one of the teachers tells us. You see, it’s experimental. He doesn’t say, “Believe, believe.” Perform the experiment. They don’t like to give names in this particular sect. They don’t like to say God because when the word is used people tend to think of different forms of God. In the West, we tend to think of the illustrations that were in books which were taken from El Greco, or somebody like that – a magnificent old man with a white beard. They don’t like to give a name. They say, “Look through yourself. Don’t rely on a name.”

Look through yourself and try to find the Self, it’s called, rather provisionally. There is a true Self. We can say, “What will this experience be?” They say, “We can try to describe it in terms of all this, but it’s far beyond that.” One teacher said, “People say, oh, you speak of something universal and immortal, but how could the human mind ever have an experience like that? The human mind’s hell in its little brain, in its little sense contacts.” Examples are given. A father, like Mr. Gladstone, for instance, playing with the children on the floor. To the children, the floor, and the game are the whole world, but in the brilliant mind of Gladstone, yes, there’s the floor and the game, and he plays the game to win. They used to say sometimes playing with the children, his eye would flash as it flashed in the House of Commons sometimes. He knows this is a tiny thing. In the background of his consciousness, there’s awareness of the city, of the country, of the world. He had a mastery of the astronomy of the time, of the galaxies beyond.

The teacher said, “Don’t think that because an enlightened mind can deal with small things, that it can’t have, in the background, the rise and the fall of galaxies.” People said, “Oh, ridiculous, ridiculous.” The teachers don’t argue. They say you either perform the experiments, or you don’t. If we have a genuine need, and the time comes when everything turns against us, when those in whom we’ve trusted, have turned to other interests, and those whom we feared have seemed to be triumphant when all our life seems to be in ruins, the Zen teacher says, “Now is the time. While we,” as he says, “are sunk in a bed of comfort complaining about the crumpled leaves in our bed of roses, we’re not going to do anything really serious.” When it’s really vital and important, then, now is the time.

When you have a great disappointment, now is the time to use the energy. You have energy now. The world seems worthless, now you have the energy. If you use that energy in saying, “Oh, why did it happen? These people you can’t trust them,” that energy is just wasted. If that energy can be turned now into an enquiry, into a search, looking through the mask – disappointment is a mask, our triumph is a mask – looking through the mask steadily, calmly looking through it, we shall find a glimpse of what he calls the divine.

One can be a spiritual tourist, let’s say. As a tourist, you visit a country, and the country’s pretty attractive. Marvellous to go to Paris, but you speak to a Parisian, and he’s not particularly enthusiastic. You see, Paris is wonderful, yes, if you’re not a Parisian because when you go to Paris, you’re not working. You’ve got no responsibilities, and you’re spending your savings on the holiday. So, the foreign countries look fine. In the same way, people are attracted to another religion or another attitude. It seems to be fine, but if they were to enter there, if they were to become a Parisian, now you’re working for the upkeep of Paris. It can be a different thing. People are attracted to something like Sufism. Sufism, Muslim belief, wine is strictly forbidden. There is a saying if however, your teacher tells you to soak your prayer carpet in wine, which would be a terrible sacrilege to a Muslim, but if your teacher tells you to do it, do it because he knows the way. One thinks, ‘Yes, this is odd and beautiful. Yes. Oh, I’d be quite prepared to soak my prayer carpet and go and buy wine and soak the carpet in wine. Good wine, of course. You don’t need that cheap wine.’ But if you go into Sufism, no longer as a tourist… well, I saw a teacher in Egypt. His forehead was pitted with scars, where, in his prayer, in his humility before God, he rubbed it on the ground. He used to make his disciples do the same as humility. One thinks, ‘Oh, I’m going under a Sufi teacher,’ and then you’re told that, and you think, ‘Oh no, don’t care for that very much.’ The teacher says, “Is it  the look of your forehead, or is it the glory of God? Is it humility before God?” Well, you think, prayer carpet yes. Forehead, no. I’ll go somewhere else.’ Then the spiritual tourist moves on. Whatever he goes in for, he’ll quite soon find that there is some rule, equally strict, that he’s asked to carry out and fulfill.

Not to be a spiritual tourist, just looking at and reading elevating texts from a comfortable chair, but actually practising. One of the main practices in the yoga is the meditation, and the control of life so that these things gradually begin to die down and become calmer. Then it’s possible to look through them to some extent.

In the Far East, where they use these Chinese characters, sometimes the makeup of the Chinese character gives you an idea of what the Chinese think of this idea. This is the character for love. It consists of these elements: claws, a lid, the heart. The Chinese idea of love is claws holding a lid on the human heart. They say this is because it becomes possessive. It turns into claws, which try to hold the human heart, and love must be freed from that possessiveness. The one illustration is given. Sometimes in a temple, there are four, or five, or six Buddhas in a line. They represent different aspects of God: His mercy, His giving fearlessness, that with a hand out there, giving wisdom. There was a man who took to worshipping the Buddhas by lighting an incense stick. You light an incense stick, and it burns depending on the stick, but you can get one that burns for 20 minutes. It burns just in front of the Buddha, and you pray to that form which is illustrated by the Buddha, for instance, compassion. You pray, “Lord have mercy on me and make me merciful to others.” This man was very taken with one of the Buddha forms, so he always lit his incense stick under the face of the Buddha. He worshipped with great devotion this aspect of God, compassion. Then he began to notice that sometimes there’d be a slight draught. Normally, the incense smoke rises up, but with a draught smoke can wander off. He thought, ‘The smoke is going to other Buddhas, and that’s not what I want. This is not what I’m praying to and for.’ He made a little funnel like that. When he put his incense stick there, he put the little funnel over it, so that the incense smoke could only go straight up and come to the nostrils of the form of the Buddha. He did this for quite some time. Of course, the smoke stained the Buddha, so that Buddha was called the Black Nosed Buddha. The story is given as a humorous story, but it’s given as a warning against being possessive in love. Not to be possessive. To be able to worship one aspect, one attribute of God, but not to disregard others. It’s a warning about these claws. Not to let our love become held by claws, but for it to become free and universal. Welfare: one of the great phrases in the Gita is, “When enlightenment comes, he brings a delight in the welfare of other beings. He delights in their welfare.” Not as cold as charity, as the phrase is, but he delights in their welfare. But welfare has to be thought of. It’s not so easy.

Welfare, yes. This was told me privately by a great teacher in India, but it was told with a purpose like all the teaching is. It’s not just to watch as if you were sitting in the stalls and watching people going through various difficulties, and so on, and just watching. These stories are told to apply oneself. There was a young man of a good family, but the family was very strict in its idea of morality. He was not so strict, and he went to the red light district, and he contracted one of these sexually transmitted diseases. The teacher was also an expert, besides being a yogi, in one of the traditional systems of ancient Indian medicine. They had, in that, a cure for syphilis, and this young man begged. He said, “Teacher, please cure me of this. If my family, if my father were to find out that I’ve contracted this, he would cut me off without a penny. He’d drive me from the house. He’s terribly strict. Do help me.” The teacher, said, “I helped him, and I applied this. I knew this method, and at that time, there was no Western medical method. I applied this method and it cured him. He was enormously grateful.”

Some months later, the young man came back again, and he said, “I don’t know how it was, but I’ve caught it again.” The teacher told me, he said, “I refused to cure him. This is not for his welfare. It would simply be he’s got now to face the responsibility of his actions.” So, welfare is not sentimentality. It means making the kindly action to save the man, but then people have to take responsibility for their actions.

Here’s another example. Again, this is from the last century in India. Indian nurses, in the last century, used to believe that human beings had a limited supply of energy.

You’ve got so much fuel for your life, they thought, and that you shouldn’t use up that fuel meaninglessly. It’s as though if you had a long ship’s journey to make, you would conserve your stocks of fuel, and food, and everything. You don’t waste them unnecessarily. The nurses then used to prevent the children from, as they saw it, dashing about, running about, and meaninglessly expending their energy. Nearly all the children who could afford this care never developed much of a physique. They didn’t know that by the exertion of energy, it will be replenished, and the body will become more vigorous. They didn’t know this. The nurses were being kind, as they thought, but it was mistaken. It actually did harm to the children, but that was not the intention, and that was not known.

The idea of action, of welfare, this takes a good deal of thinking. The question is, is more good done by actively helping people, or is it better for those people simply not to harm them? Generally, when this point is raised, people rise up, and they say, “Obviously, it was to help them,” but that’s not necessarily so. It’s not so easy to help people. We do not know the circumstances.

There was a Red Indian tribe off the west coast of Canada, who lived on a number of little islands. To visit another village, they had to make a canoe trip, sometimes quite a tricky one. To go to school, it was quite an elaborate arrangement. The Canadian government, in its kindliness and compassion, allocated a large area of very good land, and they moved the Indians. Now they could have their villages, they could meet each other easily. They had fertile land instead of scraping a living from these little islands. Everything was very much better, but the Indians soon gave up all interest in life. They stopped breathing, and the race died out because their traditions and their whole identity had been lost. The government had no idea that this would happen, but it did happen by doing good. Therefore, one of the things that we notice, the golden rule is, do unto others as you would that they would do unto you. This is attributed first to Jesus, though it can be found before him. The great Rabbi Hillel, about 50 years before Jesus, he put it in a different way.

There’s a story about him. It’s almost certainly authentic. One of these enterprising idiots came up to the great Hillel, and said, “Master, can you say the whole of the law while I stand on one leg?” Most people can’t stand on one leg for more than a few seconds. The chap said, “Right, begin!” Hillel said, “Don’t do to others, what you would not that they do to you. That is the law, all the rest is commentary.” The man stood down. Now, you’ll see this is in a negative form. “Don’t do to others what you would not that they would do to you.”

People say, “Oh, this is negative. This is not so positive,” but tastes differ. I may think I like talking to people, that I’d like people to come and talk to me, but Einstein didn’t want people to come and talk to him. He found them an intolerable nuisance, so that, to do to Einstein as I would like him to do to me, namely to come and talk to me, would be against his interests. Hillel’s formulation, which is the formulation also, you can say, of the Gita, very largely, is don’t do harm to other people. This is probably the most that you can normally expect. If you can avoid doing harm to people, then your account will be well in the plus. These things need considering quite a lot. Karl Marx thought he was going to do good to all living beings. Nationalists like Hitler, they thought they were doing good to the human race in general – yes, a few, of course, had to be wiped out. They said to me, “Look, you English, you’re all mad on horse racing, aren’t you?” That was their idea of the English then. They said, “Look, you don’t breed from inferior horses, do you, when you want racing horses? In the same way, we shouldn’t breed from inferior stock in the human race.” I said to them, “How do you decide which is the good stock?” They said, “It’s their advances. It’s their courage, their determination, and their intellectual capacity.” I said to the chap, “Then when the Romans arrived, neither you nor we were doing very well, were we? On your theory, they would have been right to wipe us out and recolonize Germany and Britain.” He went, “Oh, think with your blood!”

 It is not so easy to say, “Oh, we know how to do good. We know how to do good,” but we can easily find out not to do harm. When you meet people like Gandhi, who was determined not to do harm, they’re very impressive, and they can create a peace and an inspiration round them. We have to try to establish something in ourselves, which will give us the balance to see things and understand things and, finally, carry things out. Things which are done impulsively are not well done. Things which are done lazily are not well done. Things which are done impatiently are not well done.

There has to be a way of doing things which are not impatient, which are not impulsive, which is not lazy, where the thing is done for its own sake not because I should get something out of it, or it’ll be ghastly if I don’t do this, I’ve got to do it, but to do the thing for its own sake. The time to practise these things is boring, repetitive jobs where there’s no intellectual element at all, these are the times, these are the occasions to make use for spiritual practise.

I’ve got to clean the floor. Normally, I start cleaning, and all the time I’m done here, and I know that I’ve got about six more of these to do. I move on, and then I know that’s an awkward bit there, and I see it’s a bit dirty there. My mind is boiling with thoughts. Finally, I’m thinking not about the job itself but about the row I had yesterday, and how I could have said that, and that would have settled that but I didn’t think of it, but maybe I’ll get the chance tomorrow. The polishing gets pretty vigorous then. Then the polishing gets a bit slow…

There’s a way of doing the polishing. I’ve seen a quarter of a mile of corridors being polished. Polished wood, no polish allowed. It’s all done by elbow grease, but it all shines. They do it in this way. They do it for its own sake. It begins dull, and then it’s polished. They use both hands. Here, we use one hand, but they use both hands. Then it begins to shine. Its nature begins to shine. Then, without planning or thinking, ‘I could about do two more before lunch’, in these ways, a mental serenity can be practised.

In some of the schools, they say, “Offer this action to God.” We think, ‘What’s God going to make of a bit of polishing of the wood?’ No, we’re polishing our own heart by throwing out the motives, throwing out the fears, throwing out the anticipations, and the heart becomes clear and shining. This is the offering to God. Some practice like that, and especially these dull, boring times, make an occasion for spiritual practise. Then there begins to come a change. When the mind becomes serene, it’s as though the polishing cloth or cloths begin to become alive of themselves so it’s no longer, ‘I am polishing here.’ They begin to become alive, and then there’s no sense of fatigue. They begin to come alive, and the floor will shine, and the heart will begin to shine. This is the offering to God. These are hints. They’re not meant to be dogmas. People can believe them or not believe them, but when times are very difficult, these are things which can be practised. When there’s almost nothing left, when you’re in prison, these are things which can be practised so that the mind doesn’t get demoralized.

One of the things which comes up is that the right actions, our good conduct, is something we have to impose on ourselves. If somebody hits me, then I want to– But when I’m hit, I’ve got to impose, ‘No.’ This is not the true morality. This, the response to hit one back, seems to be natural. Then this, ‘No, I mustn’t,’ that seems to be unnatural. What the teachers are saying is, the Self, that immortal element in man, which can be just glimpsed at first, that is shining, and will shine out into a new behaviour, which will be natural. We are not our natural selves.

You can think, ‘We are. I’m like that. I’ve always been like that.’ People are right-handed or left-handed. What happens is, you’re born with a tendency one way or the other, but that goes on. If you’re right-handed, you use the right hand more and more. The one minister is almost dead. When the teacher begins to urge us to develop the other hand as well, we always think, ‘He doesn’t understand me.’ In the same way, our natural voice has got about five decent notes which it can sing, and the rest – well, it should be a two-octave register – is absolutely awful. The tunes we choose to sing are the ones where the strong notes are, the strong five notes and we bellow those out. The other melodies which grow a bit wider, we don’t care for them. Somehow, ‘I’ve never liked that,’ means you can’t do it. Again, the first thing the teacher will do is bring up the weak register, and then bring the whole register up together, the two octaves together. Now, to some extent, we can do this ourselves if we look calmly, and we realize the habits which we have.

My older brother’s method of arguing was to repeat his sentence louder, and louder, and louder. As he was a fine boxer, he often won an argument, but he didn’t actually win an argument. He never convinced them, but he shut them up. He gradually came to realize that this was just one thing that he could do, and he hadn’t developed a rational argument. He had a little awakening one day. It was most peculiar. It was just a sentence which changed him. He was shouting at a man, and I don’t know what it was that impressed him about this man. The man said, “You might be a bit civil about it.” For some reason, that penetrated like a dart and he started becoming quite gentlemanly. When we try these things, of course it seems to be unnatural because it’s not what we’ve been doing, but actually, the use of the body and the mind, in all its faculties, is the natural way.

It’s not to look at everything intellectually, or, ‘I consider things scientifically,’ or ‘Do I have to be the conscience of everybody else?’ We have our particular line, and we’re quite effective in that line, but we’re not very good at the other lines, and we should develop an ability both to speak and to shut up. It’s not easy to do these things when we first try them. A long, long time ago they did a performance of The Ring at Covent Garden. They did something which they didn’t necessarily often do. They brought the dragon onto the stage: Fafner. He was actually to come on and Siegfried finally slays him. They had an impressive dragon. He was mounted on lots of little wheels and he was to come forward onto the stage like that.They just rehearsed that week, and then he was put away for quite a time, but they forgot to oil the wheels. When Fafner, this immense thing, came on there were thousand of little wheels and [the sound] spoiled the whole illusion. When we try to change our conduct or our thinking, it’s a bit like Fafner. We do change it, but there are a lot of little wheels grinding away. Finally, it will become natural.

One of Freud’s best pupils, Theodor Reik, said that nearly every sense, nearly every feeling in psychoanalysis is false, but there’s one feeling, one of the very few feelings that is absolutely genuine. That is, the sense of relief when some cherished fantasy, or some cherished ambition, or some cherished prejudice, or some long-cherished fear is dissolved and floats away into the infinite. He said that sense of relief at getting rid of what seems so natural, what seemed to be one’s very self, he said this is one of the few things that really does register as genuine.

About doing good, there’s a Chinese Zen master who said, you see a hungry snake pursuing a frog. What do you do? You don’t like snakes, you prefer frogs, so you take a stick and you knock the snake away or maybe kill it. Then the frog starts eating flies, so what have you done? On the other hand, if you don’t kill a snake, it’ll eat the frog. Aren’t you offending against the law of compassion? He says, in fact, you will never solve these riddles of what is finally good and what is finally bad. The best thing is not to do any harm yourself, not to be killing snakes or eating frogs yourself. He says that we feel we’re doing good, but when we look at it, we often find we give drink to somebody who’s an alcoholic. He’s very grateful, “Oh, you saved my life,” but have we done good? No. We’ve plunged him deeper into it. He says best, don’t do harm, but set an example of independence yourself.

When you get the monsoon in India, as I expect some of you know, it comes down like a wall. You all rush for the nearest house eave and you huddle under it, but actually, you get soaked. I saw a man, this wall of water came down the street, and we all rushed for this eave. He simply walked down the centre of the street as though he was having a shower bath. Perfectly at ease. The picture of that man – he completely independent of it. We were all going to get wet. He was independent of it, as though he were enjoying it. That picture has been a help to me in times of difficulty when mountains of spite, or venom, or jealousy, or false stories, or maybe genuine accusations are made against you, to be able to simply walk through it.

One Japanese poem is this: The Cicada. The Cicada is a tiny little insect about the size of a thumb, but it can rub its wings together, and it can make a terrific sound. First time you hear it, you think, ‘My God, there’s something there.’ It goes on. I’m telling you it’s a tiny little thing, and this huge voice comes from out of it. In some of the poems, it says the voices of envy, and spite, and calumny, they’re Cicadas. It’s a tremendous noise, but really, those people are nothing. They’re nothing but noise. The Cicada, finally dies, and then it’s eaten. Then you just have the shell. It’s like a little beetle heart with a hard case. It’s just the empty shell. In the famous poem, the poet sees the empty shell, and he says, “Oh, did it become entirely a voice, the Cicada shell?” Those people who make all these furious attacks, they become empty shells. A little poem like this sometimes can be quite helpful in difficulties, so I pass it on to you.

Look at what Freud really said, which is that “Society cannot go on without repression of the personal and sexual freedoms and sublimation.” That’s what Freud actually said. What tends to be thought that he said was that there shouldn’t be any repression at all, but that’s not in fact what he said. I suggest reading Civilization and Its Discontents. You may be talking about much more recent psychologists, and in which case, I would only say this, try it.

I have done very severe athletic training. The body says, ‘Oh no, not again.’ The will says, ‘Yes, again.’ Not unreasonably, but it says, ‘Again.’ The body doesn’t like this, but if you carry it through, the body begins to change. Then there’s a new vitality and vigour in the body when this mastery is attained. This is not meaningless repression of the fatigue and the impulses to do something else, a sort of distraction. It’s not meaningless, it has a purpose. In the same way, Freud said the whole of culture is based on repression and sublimation.

We should try ourselves and observe the effect on ourselves. If I repress my anger, and I’m boiling with it inside, not much is gained except by other people. But I can change that anger within myself by repressing and then sublimating it. I shouldn’t say this perhaps as a personal anecdote but I began seriously studying Sanskrit at 55. It’s much too old to start a new language, but the cultivated antagonistic approach from Judo made me feel this language is like a Judo opponent. I had to change my technique, but I wrote the text I wanted to master out in huge letters and hang around the wall of the room. While I was swinging weights, sometimes I would try to get the meaning. When I’d lost the meaning, I’d go up close and read, ‘Oh yes,’ and come back again and then try again. I changed the technique. This was like a fight, but it wasn’t a meaningless fight. The fighting instinct had been repressed and then sublimated into this abstract opponent, the Sanskrit language. In fact, I have published a couple of books of Sanskrit translation. I give this personal example because it’s real to me. Basically, these things depend on experiment and the thing is to try these things and see what the effect is on oneself.

See whether repressing and sublimating does create a block, see what it does. My teacher used to say there are undreamt-of possibilities in the mind, and by disciplined activity, but meaningful, disciplined activity, they can be brought forth. We can see, for instance in memory, people these days can’t remember much. We don’t train the memory, but someone like Thackeray, 200 years ago, in a storm at sea, to distract his mind from the danger, he recited the whole of Paradise Lost by heart in his cabin.

In the Indian continent, 300 BC, we know from the Greek ambassador, people could remember books by heart. One might think, ‘You can’t do. That’s impossible.’ No, it’s possible. Now, we should find that what we want to do, and then by disciplining the life, and sublimating it to do something worthwhile, see whether these powers do develop in ourselves. If they don’t, stop it. If they do, it would make life much more interesting. You can all read silently, you can pick up something, but in Roman times, they couldn’t do that. They had to verbalize the words. They had to read the words aloud. They couldn’t read silently. You were a genius, like St Augustine or the astronomer, Ptolemy, if you could read silently. Now, everybody can do it, so we’re all geniuses. No, we’re not. We’ve developed this.


Similar Posts