perfect ghosts

I am hungry.
I came they stay, so strange today.
It is hard for me with philosophy. with understanding, needless to say that knowledge is only a small facet of the entire bric-a-brac of understandings. with understanding. I meddle among the thought of transubstantiation. I meddle with the echo of my visional perception within from the shouts without, so that I and my experiences are one fabric, from the outer exposed phenomenon to even my dreaming of the impossible perceptive noumenon. and when I think about it I can't leave. I can't say yes or no, because I am. I am thinking and feeling, sensing, outwardly towards all life sensibly and inwardly towards all of me appropriated. all in me and out of me. I see you through the grounds of my fabric of my understandings, I know you only so and not you as your very independent consciousness. It compounds upon my every reaction towards you. that is that I only talk and live with you as I react to a mirror, or reading a story, it only comes alive upon my reading and grasping it by the pages and turning them, and signifying each symbol into a letter, each letter into a word, each word into a sentence where from which all understanding explodes only within my echoing body. Body in the Ponty sense. I must visit in my mind Proust's Combray and have tea and a cookie. or maybe just wake up.
So how hard it is depart form the entirety of this existence, is dependent on our senility or sanity. somewhere in between I think lies the great escape and ecstasy. st. elisabeth the tertiary.
My difficulty with philosophy is its exercise of the understanding as a total sum of humanity, and yet it lies within one person at a time. where do we connect? why is solipsism bad? why is it not true? why in the angle of darkness? but maybe it is actually within the curve light where we all become each other's perfect ghost?
I am going to go eat lentil soup now with bread and water. or in other words, I fail at language.