I think like Frege. I feel like Mallarmé.

I imagine facts like Wittgenstein;
                  the field of action,
                                    like Williams.

Quine's objective pull, from the many to the one;
Olson's subjective push, from the one to the many.

Though we do not experience pure forms,
we can know them.

Though we do not experience raw content,
we can master it.

Nothing ever appears in experience in its pure form.

Nor is there any raw content on the surface experience.

It is only in imagination, where form and content combine,
that we experience things. We imagine their innocence.

Somehow the body,
in its entirety
and its privacy,
is our answer.

I comes at you like rain;
you weather it.