Slowly my mind descends into quicksands of guided thought, reading for almost two hours. There is no greater silence than this, I can imagine. No conversation, no dialogue, no monologue, yet a shoal of words swimming in the deep and empty waters of my mind. This is the great fishing ground of ideas, this silence where no echo carries far, except for the sonar of slow and low thoughts.

The geology of thought is a little researched field. No, I don’t mean neurology or chemistry, psychology or psychiatry, but the extend and depth of the great ideas of man. The spatial characteristic of semantics. Take away man, his face, his posture and fashionable dress. Away with climate, the grandeur of his time, the sumptuous binding in fat leather. In Plato’s terms, just the bare bone.

Alas, you are true poets. The simpel fact remains, there is nothing. Dig, burrow, rummage, search, you may find old rags, pebbles and shells, hiding fossil imprints perhaps, but the honest truth is that they are nothing. The geology of thought is empty space, the light of burnt out stars passes with relentless speed, undisturbed by this fact of its own essence, and this is what we read, for what we take our spirits.