Another of his ideals was to live in a world of simple things. When a cup or a chair or a flame was nothing but a cup, a chair, a flame, then he would be a thing-like presence too, for whom that tiny world was then and there. But let him wonder, and fall silent before speaking the simple words, and it all became blurred as forms melted into each other and boundaries ceased to do their work. The object, this cup, becomes the experience of the cup, inseparable from the light, the smell, the heft, the time of day, the intentions triangulating attention and forethought. It was no older or newer than his body or his mind which it seemed he'd just woken to, or more, it was a part of that body or that mind, its cupness, felt as close and odd as any bone of his or its marrow. How can sight and hearing, touch, taste and smell, and the inner sense all work in service to the same worlding if they are not together in the root, an identity in difference, like the words making up a sentence? While the individual senses resolve their content into elements, pure patches of colour, pure tones and so on, this prior and never completed synthesis has no atoms, but is always full embodiment, always filled. And his thoughts about all this were not made of ideas, but of his swinging weight against the ground, the smells that filled his head with colours, his embattled will reweaving itself after endless overcomings.