The most mundane stuff of consciousness without reflection, without a subject in thought that comes to itself across time, without vision or structure, unmoored to sense. It keeps appearing but to no-one in particular, the pure grey nothingness that simply maintains, that ticks over in flight from form or feeling. The material before taking shape and that resists any shape. You see it but it doesn't see you and turns over and over as if in a dull sleep, turns away from the day, the afternoon, the dull sounds, the breathing, the well-worn fall. If only you could complete the thought, the way you belong in these confines, with only the question of no question, the conviction that this is all there is, and awaken the very fog in which you slowly dissolve. An opportunity at least for the poetics of dullness.