What can you say about happiness, except that it is golden and fluid and passes between hearts without once touching and that there is no theory that goes with it? The shadows are gone, as is inwardness. The mind may be a little drunk but you are not, everything is just as it is and is good. Desire blossoms rarely but when it does it expands so that everything is gently infused with it, you can't call it desire any more, there is no tendency or structure only a subtle beauty a pervading radiant stillness. That's what's underneath, the most undeserved of all accidents.