Not just experience but point of view and the appearance, in relief, of some lack--that element of proud forgetfulness, of a bold unknowing--no shame in that, no curiosity wrapped in a warm flag of non-intent.
So the base, as it were, is airy and spacious, fragments of some broken page fluttering over old bleached bones. Not even sharing the same names for things. The signposts shaved down to the earth, a vast arid conversation with nothing to point at and say here or say there, have you been there?
We can see years or space as the same thing--not so imaginary as now, but real while the language serves only to isolate the questioner more with the answers, full of unknowing, of uncaring, the disregard, the contempt: that's the punishment the questioner gets--stalling out, gliding violently on the momentum of disregard until it's just down with a velocity leading to the inevitable thud of nothing.
All contact a memory, ideas, thoughts, the isolation of experience saying only what we were taught to say to avoid the panic of now so unlike any other now. Say it, but you can't say it with borrowed words. And the lesson: no lesson, and the heads all speak the same words until it's just night all the time howling nothing.