They say Einstein’s genius arrived in flashes, but few mention the stillness that came before the spark—the quiet rituals he built to let his mind wander without losing its way. Picture this: A dim afternoon room, books stacked like small fortresses, sunlight folding in through a narrow window. Einstein sits in an armchair, a spoon loosely held between his fingers, a metal plate on the floor just beneath. He lets his eyelids drop, not fully, just enough to blur the edges of thought. In that delicate interval between waking and sleep—where logic loosens and imagination begins its work—his hand slackens. The spoon slips. Clang. The sound cuts the silence, pulling him back. Not a nap, not wakefulness—something in between. It has been widely reported that Einstein used to repeat this oft

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