To be present is to be here on this occasion and to acknowledge it as one of a series of similar occasions that differ little enough so that they can seem as though they are repeating mirror images stretching into both the past and the future. Whether there is such a sequence or not the unit of experience is seen to have the character of such a doubly infinite extension. The moment takes its identity from this dissolution of its identity in a sequence of recurrences, and the sequences themselves become the matter of experience. The sequences succeed each other, even though each one is possessed of a kind of eternity in which it completes itself. They seem to have an integrity that resists alteration, resists negativity. That the essence of each moment is an unfathomable positivity is somehow identical to their quality of being both a mere instance and the infinite sequence of which they are such an instance. And yet there is no resistance to succession from memory or from expectation, no friction offered to mutability at all. What might otherwise have seemed a strategy to push death away by replacing finitude with infinity turns out to be best able to welcome it.