Emptiness (n.) that is indefinable and excruciating — dull discontent and vague disgust with no tangible mood behind it — gives no starting point: one must be created by turning the libido inward, best at night.
Emptiness (n.) is what makes things useful: thirty spokes make a wheel, but its use lies in the empty hub — so too the hollow of a pot and the openings of a house.
Emptiness (n.) is a great feminine secret, absolutely alien to man — the chasm, the yin — into which he falls absurdly happy, or else misses his only chance of becoming a man.
Emptiness (n.) held long enough in consciousness charges the unconscious to bursting point until its contents break through.
Emptiness (n.) felt as stagnation and barren wilderness conceals as great a fullness, if one lets it in: impregnate it with the interest born of alarm at your inner death, and something can take shape.