He wondered if he were able to use words to put down meanings which were reliably transparent and repeatable, that naturally revealed their position in logical space and which could be returned to identically. Or again, whether he could present a meaning that fully belonged to him before being written down instead of one that was formed in the process of writing and had the quality of being just a little out of reach. He admired a style that was always ahead of itself, that seemed to take wild leaps and yet always land on its feet, but it was not the style that he needed for the task that he'd set himself. Instead rapid changes of focus and a short-sighted and tactical use of key words introduced a muddy quality to his reflections. To be present for him meant to be open to new and distracting undercurrents and this entailed remaining loyal to a kind of lowness of spirit. He found himself again and again in times that bore no distinctive markers, that were the continuation of a play of forces that had already been mutually conformed, so that no alteration in their course was imaginable, and he wondered what thoughts or words could unlock them. These were states of ineluctable presence, unnoticed and enclosed.