there’s nothing to it.
sit upon a moment in time & pin it to a thought a process a page a desire another moment….
another moment passing & another & soon all the time in the world becomes no time & you look into your hands & find there’s nothing.
watch your mind wander lonely as Wordsworth’s cloud
but Wordsworth’s metaphorical you arrives in a field of floral gold & just like that:
there’s something you’re not going to quite pin down, a thought you can’t quite complete, a process of understanding never fully understood.
you & I are not the question asking we are the intaking thoughtbreaking wave thinking to formulate an answer
some method of response…