To be conscious, to have the cacophony of thought subside to a low and fragmentary whispering, but still to have no experience, as if you have turned silent against yourself. A state to be denied because there is simply nothing to say of it. It seems as if it could go on forever like this, as if it is a basic state of being that lies beneath all other states. Mind is always just the way it is, not a transformation or rearrangement of a richer space in which certain elements have merely concealed themselves. Nowhere to look, neither inside nor outside. It is central, it is at every moment the complete expression of a nature with nothing lacking. What comes out is only equal to what goes in. It waits and it forgets, waiting, forgetting.