That aesthetic, oh that frenetic aesthetic, how I yearn for that aesthetic! It is one of rambling, of chaos, of some hidden, immense meaning shrouded in obscurities, in riddles, in veiled mysteries, in thousands of pages of words. They scatter and are thrown, and fragment, and in fragmentation meaning arises. You look to your right and left and down and outside and on a tower and in a cave and it is everywhere but you can’t find it because it is too fast; you can almost see it but it constantly eludes. It is too large! Too large to be seen all at once, so it fractures itself, and drives you into itself to be lost and gain knowledge slowly and randomly, in bursts. Here you don’t understand and there you don’t understand but here is a connection and something is there; what does it mean? It is vague and maybe imaginary, but in its vagueness the subconscious, that holder of instinct, utters its voice and its voice thunders and smashes us as we sit there reading or listening and you know something has been said.