There is this time and then there is imagining this time and his presence and then imagining an other time and his presence and then imagining another time and his absence. And in between various tedious horrors which apparently do not belong to the self's history. What does belong is this effort at undoing, the supreme fiction exposing its fictionality to whom? To no one apparently or unapparently. But this is just what it does, it is that kind of fiction, no overarching motive but a distinctive pattern of flaws. It is a cracked vessel, oddly beautiful in its shabby and tarnished functionality, but with frayed and open seams from which something corrosive leaks and spreads. It works nicely at wanting, in so many different ways, and can't help embracing its own undoing as the crown of wants, and even imagining cunningly that this want is self-contradictory in a way that no other one is.