First thing on waking is when it seems most muddy, agitated waters full of flecks, bright or dull, some that pop like silvery bubbles, and the whole lot swirling slowly, or that's the image of the interior of this hollow body that comes to mind and stays. And it seems to picture a cacophony of voices where you recognise only divergent snatches that are unborn thoughts spreading out in a cloud of buzzing possibilities that can't be resisted, and you go off with now one and now another happy to be back again in the land of the living, the jangling and comfortable default like so many trams taking you back into the city. You inhabit that image until it dawns on you that there is no connection between it and the activity that your mind is pursuing, or that the image is nothing but a thought and the though no more than an image and that the whole magic of it is in the not knowing how a thought begins, and it's only rapid descents into oblivion that mask the jagged and arbitrary quality of it all. And the observing and the one who observes all this is just another part of the ride.