Reflection takes some distance from its object, distance in mental or imaginary space, and brings the living of it back to the witness as if that were more real. These are reflexes of the mind and of its delight in finding meanings, but the life scatters into abstraction in such removal. See instead the microscopic perfection of everything up close in the very fibre of things against an empty background. And the emptiness too is ust as it must be. You cannot speak of consciousness but what it is is exactly this perfect conformity in experience. Everything fits without residue or supplement, even the thoughts which blossom like plants with deep roots in time's giving.