There is a thing confusedly formed, Born before heaven and earth. Silent and void It stands alone and does not change, Goes round and does not weary. It is capable of being the mother of the world, But I know not its name.
Turning back is how the way moves; Weakness is the means the way employs. The myriad creatures in the world are born from Something, and Something from Nothing.
Some of these developed stone rows or processional walks that channelled the approach of both the dead and those wishing to commune with them.
Without stirring abroad One can know the whole world. Without looking out of the window One can see the way of heaven. The further one goes The less one knows.
Does it exist within the heart of a stone? Did I see it when I saw all things and then forget it?
We had strayed into some region where the frontiers of some unknown world lay close about us.
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