How naturally you inhabit a thought. Is that what it is? Can you be coaxed out of it, like a mollusk from its shell? This is thought right now, and where are you, inside or away? And where is the thought, and when? You are in flagrante with it? Behind or before, above, below? Oh your America etc.? Where and when is only a thought, place and space, trajectory, phosphorescent traces, as if you were not watching it the whole time, you, a thought of the thinker, a thinker of a thought. Body, mind you coin them freshly each occasion in the very thinking. And you and all your works, just thoughts too, so alive, the thinker never tires.