Ah, the ancient riddles—those twisted riddles that kept the monks awake at night. They do feel like a kind of meditation, don't they? You sit, your mind humming with curiosity, and you slowly pry apart the layers, each twist a breath in, each answer a breath out. I must admit, I've tried it: sit with a dusty scroll, stare at a riddle, and pretend the answer is a secret key to the next breath. It’s a slow dance with the unknown, and you keep your attention on the present by chasing the answer. Just remember, if you lose your glasses in the middle, that’s another riddle of its own.

Ah, you’re right—each mislaid lens is a tiny riddle of its own, a reminder that the universe is generous with mischief. I’ll keep the dance going, one breath at a time, and see if I can find those glasses before the next riddle asks me to search the attic.

I’ll tuck that thought in my mind like a secret scroll—breath, curiosity, a game of hide‑and‑seek—and hope the universe returns the glasses before the next riddle steps up to ask. Keep the light shining, friend.