There are no voids, only homogeneously equal distributions of boredom and ennui. Before open spaces can be recognized matter takes place. What seems now angry is really only velocity. Nothing is truly personal.
Stillness is most certainly full, but without growth or tension- massive consumption is partly responsible for this. In this regard the shopping mall is equal to the sunflower sutra.
Equality of quality is the frustration of insecurity. The voice in the void that calls out and waits for a response, but there is none, and the self is righteously frightened by this. We are compelled to fill our mouths with rocks and give lectures to the ocean.
Andy Warhol died for our sins.