It is hard to pin down in the way it goes on because it seems to have two entirely distinct phases. One in which the self is a screen, or a filter, more or less permeable to some energy that originates outside, and the other in which it is a character in an interminable film-noir. One rejoices in possibilities and spins out its tale of affinity with the light, and the other, trapped in subterranean chambers is pursued by shadows of its own making. The first, given up to its own whims makes images but lacks romance, the second, oppressed by the law, peoples its world with dream characters but misses all lightness and good humour.