And at times when the sense of self is engaging, like an extra gear, then the air is fresher and you breathe more deeply. But what does it amount to other than holding fast to a certain subtle bodily feeling and then bending thought around it and holding it fast? As soon as you see that this is what you are doing it pops like a bubble, but without having reduced the pervading atmosphere of self-presence. The you inside the you, the dream shivers as if about to wake, a trace of light at the edge of the curtains. You can only aim for something that you can conceive, but what it is is oblique to that, the possibility of such an act, very close and yet impossible to grasp, you push when you would pull. Thought is impoverished, it's such a simple scene, like a man hitting something with a hammer, about which there is nothing much to say. No insights flash here, it is not talkative, has no beauty, no poetry, but seems to be the secret behind them. It ends up in this simplicity, just the hammering, silent reverberations. There isn't a question that can survive in this thin air.