So there you are sitting on the couch, drinking tea and occasionally putting down your cup and picking up a spiral-bound notebook and a blue plastic ball-point pen and writing some sentences in a compact but irregular hand. That's an external view and it does for many purposes but captures almost nothing of what it is like. Some writers have, in their own styles, attempted to unweave the tapestry, to display the complexity of the threadwork, when attention is given to it; how one meaning leads to another meaning, and how associations keep brimming over, glancing in from odd directions, drawing together the multiple times and places needed to frame each splinter of meaning, so that the present is only presence by way of an indefinite cloud of absences. This is experience already half-dissolved in the mind, in the activity of experiencing, which is a way of understanding the process that both defines and veils an experiencer, who, never satisfied, can keep asking for further explications, for more novels, phenomenology, cognitive science, and further experiences to feather his nest. It is the distillation of experience into essences, which rather than converging into each of the distinct petals of some extraordinary geometric flower, spread their ever unfolding richness over the mansions of an endless Golgonooza.