Without a tincture of discontent the slides come up near blank, as if they have been over-exposed and only vague outlines appear of the matter in which thought and being are to be brought together. It is perhaps an effect of the promesse be bonheur which seduces awareness into a sweet and facile worldliness. But then, these very intermittences of the self contain what is most worthy of question, just because it is independent of the all too common findings of discontent. There is something of detective work in this, and so a search for a culprit. Is it being that is at fault, or myself as its bogus agent?