Nothing could be more remote from the moment by moment happening of matters than the idea of a self, as some sort of distinguished attractor or spring or gatherer or reference point or owner or reaffirmation in this going on. There is no division into agent and event, into seer and seen, and it would seem that there can never be because of the transparent disjunction between the imagined event in thought and the simple event, including the event of the thought as well. But self is perhaps the first idea to arise in that strange confusion of the duplicated world, and it immediately brings with it the idea of other and all the extraordinary evolutions and pirouettes of their dance, with its symmetries, broken symmetries and flat out asymmetries. They are connatural, but as the twin sons of a barren mother. There is only the simple event, unspeakably present and if it twinkles it is with the reminder to no-one of the absolute absence of absence.