Just to describe the way it is is the hardest thing. To go upstream, to turn around the lens of attention and see what is giving it, this origin of this world, creates a kind of dazzlement. It is rare to be able to make out any sort of structure or intelligibiilty in this white-out. If there is a who, a historical self or personage who could so it it would not be this one, too ordinary, too crooked, too compromised, sinful, dishonest, credulous, vain. The swimming back up the current is a task for genius, something that begins beyond where these capabilities leave off. And yet this is nothing if it is not my own possibility, a possibility that belongs entirely to this particularity. There is only the most particular, it belongs to everyone, and whatever the way it is reveals, it can be nothing beyond this, can have nothing depending on rare categories. Every form of specialness is a tottering abstraction built on other tottering abstractions, and so even with that version of particular that is defined by relation to it.