The little we so fervently desire awaits us further, unrecognizable, thought. What little we can think of arises as a beggar near a door, which only the oldest in us recognizes, who in any case sees if he has the courage to do so. Thought sniffs space like smell. Smells. It captures something from the world without actually retaining it. We are constantly heading towards that little that will suddenly open in ecstasy (or be lost in the extreme, definitive ecstasy of death). But in both cases it is a question of casting a glance over the abyss, aspiring to the abyss, dancing on the brink of the abyss.