The record of things is a jumble of disconnected starts which rarely attains the level of significance it strives for. A lot of crazy stories come up, the mind is amazingly fecund in generating them, each with its own urgency, as if someone were responding and hence responsible, and someone else were standing just a little aside and considering the outcome. He wondered whether it was a matter of owning the protagonists, of finding the unifying threads in the narratives - surely not such a hard job;  since others appear generally so consistent, he must be consistent as well, just needing a little distance - or else a matter of wondering how all of this could have come about, how it came to fill his original face with so much colour and movement. These were the two poles of his inward reflection and he passed back and forth between them without noticing their inconsistencies - and their shared assumption, that somehow subject and object, self and not-self, were all tangled up in each other; that in the end as in the beginning they were so alike that there was nothing more natural than this confusion, hardly even a mistake.