Out of nothing this comes.
Little black squiggles, marching out here on parade… prancing about like presentation ponies on the open page. And so it is with everything, spilling out of nothing.
I sit in utter emptiness and out of this falls the fullness of the world. From this centre-less, place-less, timelessness all form and matter, all thought, feeling, sensation… all creations spring.
“We are such stuff
As dreams are made on”
The Tempest, William Shakespeare