Changed conditions in body and mind, a change in the weather, in the quality of light, in the way that time collects and quivers in the pulp of things as if in a still-life by one of the dream-masters. A rotation in weights so that the inner personage lolls like a puppet with slack strings, he moves his head from side to side and sees old sights, old companions from picture books who have waited all this time to reveal their secrets, and will still be waiting when the clouds have retreated into night. The invitation to draw into this amber light, as if it were a jelly, both solid and lucid, not discovered but recognised and loved long before. What your questions are now are only dried up versions of this sweet wondering in the unseparated core of things.