Hearing, seeing, feeling, thinking, but missing some element of wonder, everything is just as it is, arising and sinking into itself without portent or strangeness, returning a flat note when struck, windowless in the ground floor of the soul. It doesn't matter who or for whom, and you wouldn't think to notice or remark but for a habit of looking. As if it could go on forever, neither bad nor good, the responses coming like clockwork, easily filled and then giving way to the next, anonymous, efficient, without residue. A peculiar intimacy, quiet and unobtrusive, but wholly without warmth, or devilry. Stay indoors, watch without hope or expectation. This too is it in all its secret fullness.