A Thing (n.) is entirely what it appears to be — and behind it there is nothing.
Thing (n.) are like thoughts that stopped halfway, forgot what they wanted to think, and stayed hanging about with an odd little sense beyond them.
Thing (n.) once divorced from their names are grotesque, headstrong and gigantic: they demand nothing, they don't impose themselves, they are there.
Thing (n.) must not be stared at too long: you look to find out what they are, then turn away quickly — they disgust.
Thing (n.) drift into existence gently, tenderly, like relaxed women who burst out laughing and say 'It's good to laugh' in a wet voice, exchanging abject secrets about their existence.
A Thing (n.) is an infinity of relations with everything else — which is why the world of things always overflows: to exhaust what I see right now would take an infinite time.