I succumbed this evening, and opened the sealed copy of Art Review I had brought with me. I read a review of 'The Lives Of Things' by José Saramago. The title of this book, and the gist of the story it seems, relates coincidentally with the thread of one of the ideas I have been considering.
Ideas arrive in many forms, don't they? Sometimes like stepping into brilliant sunshine from a shady room, sometimes they hove into view, like turning a bend and seeing a brand new vista. The spark of an idea is sometimes, if not often, seen as though a distant light through a mist created as a product of the idea not being fully formed. The application of thought is a way of feeling a way through this haze. There is a stage, though, if all is well, when the mist starts to clear and the idea begins to come into focus.
I'm not quite there yet, but I can sense the warmth of the light.