Knowing and knowing that you are knowing. It stops about there, unable to go any further without forgetting where it started, the rest being blurry and in shadow. How else would you describe it? The whole thing is here, thought circling slowly about in cold muddy waters and finding no food. If there are degrees of consciousness this must be a pretty low one, a poverty of presence, and yet it is complete, whatever it is being totally engaged, totally submitted, entwined with rays of feeling and roots of memory. It would be enough to expose the secret, the pure possibility of this open-eyed cheerlessness and abeyance of desire in which selfhood is not a work of light but a heavy mist or soul which reabsorbs it. As soul it is part of something larger and without clear boundaries, idle generation of dank metaphors at its idly fluttering fringes, drawing everything into its dark silent heart.