First there is the mere being of things, or the one thing of all, in awareness, undistinguished from awareness and absolutely present, fresh and immediate, that being the very nature of awareness. And then there is this odd mirage which seems to hover somewhere outside of simple presence, him, the subject, bewildered, lost, trying to make sense of it, to get some kind of control over it, to reach an outcome. Finding himself here, in this marvellous place, this once marvellous place, at a point in time, the point it has all come down to, all the other points, purposes, actions, consequences, rolling over into this one and then this one rolling over into something else. He is a will, a project and a history, nostalgia, self-creation, ignorant, hitting out right and left. It is his entire life that he applies to things, seeking to force a narrow gap through which the sheer bulk of it could never pass. All of this is now what it will have been, some filigree in the space between a birth and a death, made of some kind of stuff quite different from the paste he thinks it is, a stuff as extraordinary as any of the effects of light which arrest his gaze.