How dull, flat and stale life can seem. The conditions of this are what you look at. They are co-ordinated, self-evident and so of course you are their complement. Remedies come to mind, which come down to varying the conditions in this way and that and you dwell on these, projecting them, imagining them. Or else you recall other occasions that were similar, other remedies that ran their course, changes that intervened, for better or for worse. It becomes a matter of what needs to be done, of the power or want of power to conceive it, to do it. You give credence to a self that is of the same degree of reality as the conditions you project, which are only thoughts. It is all unreal, an invitation to a futile expense of spirit, rather than to note that what apprehends these conditions is the very presence they seem to deny. The impressions arise and sink down into the heart of experience but you imagine that they terminate, that they are lodged, at the level of a self cognate with all the conceived conditions, the whole historical, geographical, sociological, personal mass, or mess, of them. But no, they don't stop there, that level, that chute is a part of what arises, they sink down out of sight into the veritable witness, the experiencer, here and now as ever, formless, alive, serene, indifferent, perfectly satisfied with things as they are.