Overwhelmed by lack of time, race of time, speed of time, I retreat into non-thought – merely into Epicurean sensual observations and desires – momentary ephemeral flashes of well being and ill-being. Do I think? After a fashion. Do I put myself in other people’s minds and viscera? No. Not half enough. Do I listen? …

All you need now is to stand at the window and let your rhythmical sense open and shut, open and shut, boldly and freely, until one thing melts in another, until the taxis are dancing with the daffodils, until a whole has been made from all these separate fragments. Virginia Woolf, A Letter To A …