When thoughts have vanished nothing is right or wrong, there is just this as it is. Everything appears in a whole mysterious freshness, a newness. A depth of being is revealed as present, not hidden, not beneath a veneer of illusory labeling, and everything loses its description because the fog or veil of conceptualism has never been, can never have been. No feelings of tiredness or awakeness, or any other feelings that make a personal story. What were dishes being washed is still happening, perhaps, or maybe not, but it is no longer dishes and no longer washing, and at the same time it is. Wonder and commonplace are merged into a richness of unexplainable, incapturable isness.
And then thoughts are once again center stage (or somewhere thereabouts I suppose, it doesn't much matter).