Thinking, feeling and willing, or logos, pathos and mythos, dimensions of experience but offering no help in describing something like this incompleteness, this pure mood which is yet not a mood but a sort of empty willing, a wanting without an object, a sort of unachievable intimacy, a reaching towards hidden eyes. A pure mute animal feeling, a dog's nameless sadness, dark and inward, the opening of curtain after curtain behind the screen or stage of images in a night world, a path that circles beneath velvet black trees. It is a familiarity, a returning, without external reference point, not happening to you, but you sinking into yourself, into the brimming phosphorescent heart contained in a  blue dusk no bigger than a room or a bed and a sea breeze, drawing at the warmth of skin and solitude. How often, what they call longing, without an answer, you know that doesn't change, is never assuaged, the being here one of the pillars of sense, even after it vanishes under some tangle of intents or is put sleep and fed like ghost meat desireless to hungry dreams.