The forgotten realm, the things we have forgotten and cannot understand anymore, but that we once were able to. The edge, the boundary between the remembered and forgotten. The things unattainable now, but that we once did understand, things we are capable of understanding, but that we now don't, because we need to remember a series of other things first, before we can understand that which was forgotten. What monsters live in the deep forgotten depths? What did we forget there, and were we meant to forget?

A thought and the feeling that accompanies it. I write something when I get a certain feeling with the thought. I allow my feelings to guide the writing. I should just write the thought that I have, whether I feel a certain good feeling or not, go beyond feeling. Or does feeling form part of an inbuilt guidance system that will lead me to where I need to go?

In the small white flowers I detect some rudeness in some of the dots that show dicks and middle fingers, grinning, giggling, grimacing, their naughtiness, their fun, juvenile, immature, unfiltered nature. The humanness of these dots, the sublime humanness, so distinguishable from machine dots, a different kind of pattern that humans make, a recognisable difference that can be identified when looked at.

Can I possibly think anything new about this image on this fifteenth repetition?

A stream running through, adorned with beautiful small white flowers. The sublime in a prosaic patch of field. A small patch of ground, rain falling, little puddles forming, that is all. Then why does it give such a sublime experience?