"Are we able to imagine everything or are we constrained by our experiences?", I asked.

Spending a lot of time in my own company was beginning to get on my thrupknees. I've alway known that I'm a boring idiot but I was coming to see that I was  a clear-foot under the low bar I'd imagined for myself.

I saw what I was getting at; well I saw where I was coming from, it was pure shash and it was a particular nonsense in this pure bright whiteness where we were. What we'd assumed was real wasn't, anymore.

I felt that I'd, a long time ago, given up this recursive naval gazing game; questioningwhat was the actual. It seemed that parts of me hadn't given this up.

And then the thought hit—you want to make sense of the senseless, so you make sense of the senseless. I began to see a diagonal argument...