Mostly he was left at the end of the day wondering if the day had really gone by, and he told himself that each moment must have been experienced so completely that it left no residue. What could the self-sustaining, self-recurring energy in a moment be, such that it that would lay down a marker to be returned to at some indefinite future point? It seemed that it was not so much a fear of not surviving, in which too much was already taken for granted, as what would cause the notion of survival to matter. So there needed to be something incomplete, an assurance that a contingent limitation was frustrating the inherent telos of the moment, its manifest essence or entelechy. The correct position from which to live or assume the moment had been obscured by the host of intentional frames by which his apprenticeship had been fostered, but it was there in the moment, naturally in the most obvious place. In the form of thought it was a wordless enquiry, a softly questioning glance, sympathetic, open, utterly unsparing. What commonly passed for thought was an arrest, a constriction in the throat of this openness, this interested disinterested gaze. If thought were allowed to go all the way it would be clear that there is only one thought, if even that, and not this multiplicity breaking out of the belief in  limits and taken to be the finite destiny of thought.