I think one of the more odd features of the invisible world — of ideas and notions, affects and thoughts — is that is has shape. We know it has intensity — an idea or emotion or thought can take you over, make the very fibers of your being quiver or it can simply tickle your mind. But I want to say that these invisible things have shape, too. Or at least that they are inflected by those things that have shape, such as bodies and objects.
This is why one place — a block, a corner of the house, a city — has a certain affect and a certain effect on you but that affect, and effect, doesn't travel. You turn the corner and, voila, you experience something different.
Which is to say, if we acknowledge that affect shifts according to place then said affect is not in you per se. And nor is it uniform, like an invisible blanket tossed over the world. It is variegated and hence enjoys an architecture of a sort.
I want to say that Foucault studied the intricate architectures of power and truth, those invisible forces that at once prompt and limit what we say and think, that shape what we say and think.
Castaneda, meanwhile, gives us ways to operate in the space of the invisible.
Psychedelic experience is shaped: we see, and sense, shapes. Suddenly, the invisible is not so invisible but rather has internal borders, sort of like the streams in Donnie Darko, only more elaborate.
In What is Philosophy?, Deleuze and Guattari draw diagrams of concepts, of Descartes' cogito and Kant's system. Concepts are certainly architectures, distinct shapes, of the invisible.
A perhaps banal way to consider this is to see the negative space of the world, what we think of as the in-between.
As aspect of this argument is that the world is a plenum — it is absolutely full, even if always in the process of filling. There is no blank space, no nothing. Between us is always something. And this something, which is always multiple, has shape and speed and intensity.