Consciousness being a thing created consists of, he paused. Apologised to the boy. Doubts, my dear, he explained. Consists of doubts, repeated the boy, trying to understand. On dear. Tell me a story. Clever, that’s clever, this little monkey’s getting wise, thought he, the monk. Brother of instruction. Imagine. The boy settled in anticipation. Imagine a prison. I see an old, overgrown cell. Single cell, cube one door infront, four small barred windows, in line above it. On either side relevant to this front, two more likewise out of reach of a prisoner. The monk paused. The boy’s eyes. Monk’s desire. They bring. Who? demanded the boy sweetly. Wait. The containers bring the contained. Eh? The guards bring the prisoner. I see. Lock him up. Go on their way. Imagine that the prisoner is in his cell. Perhaps that’s how he got there. The boy agreed. The monk held the boy with his eyes a moment in silence to create a pregnancy of expectation. Now imagine, if you can, a cell that is the prisoner. Say we transform a man into a prison cell. Like a lobster pot, what strays in is what cannot get out. Easier in than out. Bird flies in a window, flutters around the empty cell. The man, imprisoned as this empty cell aware it hops and flutters inside him. And should it never leave, like a leaf, say, blown in off an old oak or beech or plane or chestnut. The monk pointing to the autumn trees around them. If I had to be enchanted like that, the boy started up. I would want to be here stuck among the trees. They’re so friendly. Friendly? thought the monk.