I wake to the sound of an electric fan and lie in bed with my eyes closed imagining, like the poet Lars Gustafsson, the silence in the world before Bach. Mornings can begin this way. The day is empty. There is room for the mind’s play. There is no place just now for capitalism. The mind is a question asked of another question. And just as I decide I don’t want to get out of bed the dogs come because their bellies are empty.
Planet of the Blind 