He was a metastable structure of values and tested realities, of likelihoods and pathways mapped in a map of the world. It seemed firm enough, he'd dedicated a lot to the ecology, making it nice, well stocked with projects and rewards. And he was not alone; there were others around more or less present, and they were predictably unpredictable. But then at times there were things he only remembered, couldn't feel,  couldn't remember why he'd ever been interested in. They were just over there, or at least the door to them, or maybe more like the entrance to a subway car, he only had to show his ticket. It all became clear after he'd passed through and in the brief time while what was left behind spread out in a blur before disappearing. Was it the passage to the act or the act of passage, the implosion of mediation, that so shook him with its intimate violence and deposited him, incredulous, refreshed on the familiar shore?