To be yourself you feed on interest, faute de mieux you surf your own mind as if it were the 'net. But from time to time the 'feed' dries up, a neutral and passive state ensues, not really unpleasant unless you define it so. It is a kind of boredom or emptiness by which you can gauge the degree to which you are habituated to stimulus. It is a state easily overlooked, or seeking escape you'd put yourself to sleep or try to awaken sexual desire. You become aware of your body which has slowed down and relaxed its tone, no longer willing to silently bear the character, to provide the music. There is a truth here which is normally masked, a complete failure of the project of understanding yourself, you cannot account for this and yet it is the earth-taste of the clay out of which you are shaped, it is fundamental poverty when all the toys have failed, and if the meandering fantasies and monologues continue it is without a master or any desire to submit to one, 'the human engine waits, like a taxi throbbing...', not silence but a Tiresian state which puts all others into doubt. The mind at low tide and all the stinking things on the beach, dead fish and seaweed, garbage swept up by the tide, shallows as far out as you can see. Eat fish and chips, go for a walk, watch the sunset through dull eyes, an extraordinarily grey intimacy, the mollusk self withdrawn into its shell, the melancholy base from which strange beauty would arise.