What presses most to be written, always presses, is hardest to write. It is simply to describe the feeling of everyday experience. The identifying quality of the sensory world, what makes it the sensory world, what silently reveals itself as being alive moment to moment. All of this is extremely specific and utterly general. Essential to this, yet appearing to accompany it, are overlapping washes of inner feeling which have their own cycles and progressions and their amplification and obscuration by yet another component, noisy mental chatter. What is it that tries to claim the love of the sensory texture of the world, in the sense of being the lover? Something well-anchored in a collective history. Nothing at all, really, another layer of discourse, of chatter, but faster and more rapidly inclusive, a sort of psychology or politics reaching in from the epoch's jetstreams.