Walking through Camden Town. The mystery could be the meaning.
I just don't know how a certain piece of street art ended up on that particular street corner. I don't know how many invisible collisions resulted in the hand and eye that framed it, the neurology that fed the paint. I don't need to know.
Just watch all those elements play out, the ones you can see and the ones you can't, and really you can't see any of them, though each one almost leaves a sound in space, a white beard of noise.
I have no idea how it got there, but I can see why people like to gang together, look through the same telescope and say - 'Look at those people over there, looking through that telescope in the wrong direction, at the wrong thing, with the wrong lens' - because to acknowledge you can never really share your lens is properly terrifying, and to think about where thoughts go when you die if you don't write them down is terrifying as well.
Think of how many lost thoughts there have been. Think of how many lost thoughts there are right now, in the sense of thoughts that are on the verge of being lost. There they go. Then think about what a thought really is. There it goes.