Gradually putting things together.  Gradually pulling things apart.  Watching for the gaps that appear .  Having nothing special to say.  The special is where the deception is hidden.  We are nothing but animals.  Nothing but animals grubbing about in the dust.  It is all about the competition.  It is all about whether I am doing better than you.  Can you still write a novel with no structure and no no characters.  Is a novel still the same thing.  Is it the same conception that Dickens or Dostoyevsky had?   Too many questions and no answers.  The constant questions a distraction from the white spaces between the areas of uninterest.  The white spaces of mathematical interest.  The white spaces that we all see but some of us ignore and some of us obsess about.  The white spaces that might mean there is something more.