Feelings, complexes of feeling, stubborn patterns of contraction all have their logic, their propositional content caught up in a web of discernible and mostly indiscernible causes. The shape, the sound, the stress of it. In the keenness of this you are aware of being chaff in the winds of time. When you are least intelligible, when your paltry intelligence is prised open you are more aware of something like the stirring of the world spirit. It is oddly bracing, as if you were finally being spoken to.