“Wait for me.”

The Buddha knocked on my door this morning.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“No,” I told him.

He seemed surprised.  “Why not?”

“Because I read your book,” I said.  “And you said that if I meet the Buddha I should kill the Buddha, and now here you are and I’m not a violent person so we’re kind of stuck, and why do you want to come in anyway?  I don’t feel like killing today, and if I did it would be some part of me that would be the victim, not a chubby, smiling, half-naked man sitting on my doorstep, one hand on his knee and the other touching the dirty sidewalk.  Come back tomorrow.  Maybe then I’ll kill you.

Or, maybe, let you in.”

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