Sketches I did during my Philosophy of Mind class. I believe we were discussing John McDowell's thoughts on demonstrative specifications being unintelligible without a visual experience of the demonstrative's referent.
Twice a week I take a rag to all the fixtures in the hall, but there are always those places, the nooks in the coffee table, the back of the chesterfield, that are coated thickly with dust. On the cobwebs in the corners it gathers in fragile tendrils, stalactites of dust. I know, because I’ve looked behind the chesterfield. I came up with a theory once, that the frequency of the vibration from the trucks arranges the dust molecules in a crystalline pattern, and if you looked real close with a microscope, it wouldn’t be that drab grey mat coating the orange fabric but a beautiful, labyrinthine world of colours and textures, like peering into one of those rocks that looks like an ordinary rock, but it’s full of emeralds on the inside. That’s what the dust was like, I thought, but no one has a microscope that can look closely enough.