Feeling good about your own work—your own words—working it out in your heart that you feel they all ought to be written down in a book somewhere, though you may be wrong, it is strange. You cannot always tell. There could be something there. There could also not, but after a certain point the question is not if there is not something there, but rather how much of something is there. And what you can do with it. And how, and so on. But the questions sort of circumvent themselves, and make way to nothing and become what they are.