He was the acolyte or the priest of his true self, or of what he conceived to be whatever was left of depth when he had dissolved back into the dreamlessness from which he had emerged. As such he cut an absurd figure running around like a cartoon character trying to find its own heart to lay before that other who is all heart, and who will never for a moment acknowledge him. If only desire could be fully persuasive, could first persuade itself, then the other might open its eye, unstop its ear, and restore paradise. The sense of fullness that he glimpsed obliquely in art, in music, appearing just out of reach, was a product of a certain angle of view, one which could be steadied and almost straightened with practise. Rising up before him it seems to be his own alienated possession, he sees it possessed by someone and then in a second moment close on the first he see that someone, you, as himself. In art time becomes a window into the timeless; sometimes a perfectly crystalline window but adamantine. As long as we are looking in, well, it might go on forever but it's no go. But when the window is used for looking out... When, out of time, is it ever otherwise?