Ideas coalesce, congeal, become something almost solid, something from little threads of almost nothing but whispers of the imagination, the ideas and the images, the imaginings of the mind, of the soul, no fear of death sometimes, no fear of anything, merely the joy of thinking of imagining of living in your own thoughts, the worlds you create, the places you conjure, the creatures into which you breathe your very life, the solace you feel in your imaginary world, all of it keeping you company in an otherwise lonely and pathetically dull reality