Yestereve your dream was a sequence of blank halls, whose walls eventually struck you as same as the measurements of your room. No movable objects occupy the space. The walls are not even of a colour; they are utterly unremarkable. Nought to see and feel but the space of the place, and the correspondence between the length of your body and that of room, repeated selfsame unceased. Seemed very easy to get lost, but could not, no matter the effort expended; each step only brought you closer and closer to a dearness, that you would come to know the space the same way you knew the back of your hand. (You already had, when you once awoke. The lonely season of separate abodes had not yet ended.) Eventually you deduced that the space and yourself were one and the same, for the space was held at the centre of your head, and also concurrently surrounded your body as you slept; the resultant strangeness of the layered loop was enough to break the dream and wake, and thus you reached the answer of the absent 'i'.