The stranger approached the master seeking enlightenment on how to avoid the trap of Illusion totally and forever.

The master, in response, challenged the stranger: “Let’s keep it real.  What’s been the play of Illusion in your life?  What does Illusion mean to you?”

The stranger did not hesitate to volunteer:

“To speak to a trusted intimate of Illusion—

of all the previous lovers and intimacies that served no ultimate

end but to disillusion—

to speak so and have the loving courage

to believe that this trusted one

would never join their company—

to have this trusted one pledge most adamantly,

in brilliant contrast, to stand apart from all who failed before—

and then to awaken one day with the full realization

that this  one, too, had passed fully over into the company

of that  oblivion—

that is cold-ass Illusion.”

The master paused considering the eloquence of the stranger’s response.  Actually, an onlooker, had one been present, might have observed that the master’s last sip on a can of beer coincided precisely with the last words of the stranger.  No matter.

 Before rummaging around for another beer, the Master spoke:

“Please , tell me you didn’t see it coming..."

Then, digging deeply into the profoundity of his enlightened non-self, he declared:

"Wake up.  Wake up.  Your Illusion is just a bad dream-plot for an unremarkable afternoon TV soap opera.   If you must dream, dream a little dream about dreaming about…”

The master never finished verbalizing his thought.  Instead, an onlooker, had one been present, might have been invited by the master, at that precise adverbial loss, to share the next "beers-of-great-destiny" along with him ...and the stranger.