In the course of our goings-on doubts about experience arise, these are typically the result of the reflections brought about by the collapse of illusions, whether these be simple perceptual illusions or illusions of the heart, mirages de bonheur. Perhaps they are not so much doubts or inconsistencies as folds, new layers added with the sense reversed. Experiences are real but there is a differential mine-ness attached to them. The fact of an experience can be admitted but it is only one of a spectrum of facts attached to a common place. The place where perceptions and presences come and go. These other presences which I can touch only tangentially, only glancingly, make this place what it is. Scenes into which I have already entered, and with the same sets of questions, and received the same sorts of answers. But they can only be entered once, the next time being a revision. Another instance of a general rule, like sex, which in its repetitions does not fail to generate a few moments of a fever of intensity, of utter certainty of firstness, of crazy hope, before dying into the banality of the same acts in the same dance, clumsily submissive to the coupler's will. And also the same amazement, the same reflexes of assumed awareness, prompted by the well-known cues, pointless to embroider. These patterns belong not only to personal but to collective, and known to be collective, memory.