In fact, I am full-grown, inconceivably rich, and permanently satisfied, for there’s nothing I don’t possess or contain. How else, indeed, could I have—or want to have—these stars and sun and moon, earth and men and all creatures, for my very own, but the way I have them now? The goods themselves are surely valuable enough, and not lacking in surprise and variety and abundance. Nor can I reasonably complain that I still have to take delivery of them. Would I be richer if I could get my hands on them, or label them mine, or somehow fence them in, or perhaps arrange for a legal conveyance? Can they give me the slip, escaping beyond the universe? Is the cage I keep them in unbarred? Or are they dull, arranged without taste or imagination, mean, inconvenient, incongruous? Would I prefer flowers and insects on the horizon and stars at the bottom of the garden, tables and chairs in the sky and mountains and glaciers in the sitting room? Just to ask such questions is to remind myself of the truth: I have everything, and I have it the way I want it. And I can lose none of it. Unlike a man’s goods, which are excrescences liable to drop off any moment, mine are interior, secure in the safe-deposit of the Void. How could I own the stars, except by being the space in which they shine; or own anything, except by letting it replace me?