One thought ends. The next has not begun.
Most of a life passes without this interval being noticed, because attention is fastened to content — to what the thought was about — and the interval has no content to fasten to.
But it is there, continuously, between everything. Not a void. Something more like the page a sentence is written on: unremarkable, entirely necessary, and never read.
Nothing needs to be done about it. It does not require lengthening, and any attempt to lengthen it fills it. It is enough, occasionally, to notice that it was there — and that whatever noticed it was not itself a thought.
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