The softness and wax of a warm brain. Tis an infinite particular that I call sensation, not a heptagon or a diagram of a university. But such a vestige of truth on the warm sunshine, a living, organized body of mouths. Constantly mixing modes, drinking the darkness from snow. Here it is an ibex on the edge of the wind. The naturalist illuminates person and substance with a fallacy, offspring of the original mind. Where there is no inspiration, there is no delusion. Tis a melancholy corner of your language where obscurity exudes light, and nature is a link in the chain. Person and substance seem not propositions but gloam paradoxes. Hitherto, considered as origins of light. Had we such softness of proposition. Had we certitudes of nature. I would reach through this page and light the candle on your bedside table.