Thinking, feeling, doing, all at once or successively, the words are only gestures towards overlapping layers of being, which are not the whole thing at all. You can't fit them together, they are like incompatible puzzle pieces, and all that's been going on inconsequentially is just this doing of yourself, a habit you can't break, against a background of tremendous complacency, evaporated cares, a little sweet reminder of something neither wholly real nor wholly imaginary, that you toy with. It will surely explode and shatter this smoothness, but that is in the future, while now you can't get out from under it, you are enjoying it too much. You seem to know something you don't know at all, and it is enough to drop you into a warm bath, where you are happy to wallow foolishly and without defenses. Every else is just a position that you look on with a dull and ironic eye. Oh, where is the Palmer to come and smash you over the head and drive you out of here?