As if the tinder is damp and you can't strike a spark but otherwise nothing would prevent it - there is clarity, absence of dominating mood, readiness to consider, and a rejection of irrelevancies, fading tendrils of desire, a kind of quiet happiness. Feeling as though you have just landed alone in this misty landscape, gathered and at peace with mediocrity, but all the weight has gone into a counterbalancing dreamlife which is rumbling in an adjacent room. Here there's just a small empty space, not quite real or unreal, a dilute solution of mind, a perpetual elsewhere. April foolishness?