Experience of beauty is entirely inward, the beautiful object prompts the momentary recognition of something always known, always possessed but forgotten behind the flow of reveries. Knowledge and love are self alienated, scattered amongst the debris of a shattered world. What shatters it but thoughts and feelings out of place, hopelessly tangled up in each other. Every feeling unjudged, unclassified, is pure feeling and pure feeling is always beauty, you don't need it to be handed back to you to see that, only that you expect it to be, tincturing it with longing, expecting music to arise from silence. Every feeling is unanticipated beauty, and you come lumbering after asking for a second chance, delayed in shadows, the sharp words. Your theories are all false, it was complete before you even thought of asking and there is no circle, nothing to show. And even your theories are beautiful, you muddlehead, and the music is the silence, the silence the music.