Come to think of it? I am no-one. As plain as the nose on your face!

Can be written like a poem, I am not he - nor there, here. What am I? That was the Maharshi’s question. Who am I? That is for you to discover. Before thought arises, the universe IS. That is what I am. And it is - nothing. All there is remains. Salve, Old Man. Note - the Maharshi was Terrence Grey’s name for Ramana Maharshi, because the guru ( or was it Gouler?) is always within.

So said Lewis Carroll. But don’t take my word for it. It is also something that is written in tune and rythmn. Sing it. That’s essential to the wiring of the writer. End of sermon. Pay attention to the birds. Sleep for England. There is no-body home.