Not enough is said about neutrality, the metaphysical in-breath that is a suspension of will and desire, not their absence. The pure coolness of a Winter evening without any irritable reaching after certainty or the even more tantalising avatars of uncertainty. Everything settled back into its own place and a kind of impalpable grace suffused in you and through you; and you can only nod in calm acknowledgement of all the invitations to chaos. Windless time resting on the fields of sleep.