Sometimes his dreams seemed like attempts to revisit some moment of a history, perhaps not really his own, to re-experience it for the first time. It was like the sense he had that death would always be too soon because life was always preliminary, a sketch, that it was only all there was time for in the moment, but to be returned to later on, definitely returned to. To know where he was and what he was doing there was a task, and failing the knowledge to complete the current setting, he had to be content with shorthand notations, cross-hatchings to cover the shadows, crude pixelations away from attention's centre. All of this would have meant little if there had not been rare occasions when experience was full and sufficient. These seemed entirely natural and yet were impossible to sustain. In fact he never tried to do so but but wilfully threw himself into self-alienation. In this he was allying himself with the way of the world, with the splendour of its divergence, its cunning at excess. His love for this delirium was unbounded.