It’s origin is unknown [grab that next thought please, and ask it where it came from].
It’s stage can’t be located. [Inside my head? Beneath the sink? In Kiev?]
It’s terminus is not found. [Where do all those thoughts go, like stairs in an escalator?].
I can’t see it. I can’t hear it. I can’t smell it. And any thinking about it, muddles it more.
I Think. I Think that I think. I Think that I think that I think…
No self-respecting scientist would take seriously something to which he cannot give the simplest of coordinates.
There is nothing I understand less than this thing called ‘Thought’. Yet nothing is more real to me than this which I understand the least.
I cannot deny you the smile: at least one respected and self-important Philosopher majisterially defines a Philosopher as one who: ‘Thinks about Thinking’.