What is the question to which my life is the answer?

Rani emailed me this tonight:
"I'm afraid of my reflection. Each glimpse reveals this vast laughter, not malicious, but a laughter that threads through the wide infinite, a quark pressing me to never-believe. Let me out. I'm in a land of billions, each heartbeat a faint percussion that I hear even in the timeless 4 a.m. of night.


furious, feasting, bloodthirsty for
I've broken my attachments
giving up want in exchange for an end to suffering
It's left me adrift, no bodhisattva,
maybe I've given up compassion,
maybe my innocence is dead."

When I arrived in the city the first image that stuck with me was the homeless man slumped over in the gutter, graffiti on the brick wall behind him, a crumpled paper bag near one of his hands.  On one side of the bum it said, "God is Love," on the other, "Fuck the world."