In waking life there are forgettable transitions - although noticed and joked about in some contexts, so used have we become to seeing experience as a sort of cinematic text - between different worlds successively embodied in the same set of events. Worlds are folded upon worlds, and in the course of a day the cosmos can change several times over and not provoke the raising of an eyebrow. We have a mind for the sheer diversity of the thing, and the knowing of it pleases us in making each particular scene more dreamlike. The more entirely it changes its face the closer the affinity between the outer unknown that generates worlds and the inner unknown that makes dreams, and so the more wonderful the furniture, the infinite and pristine detail, the unrepeatability, the unimaginable freshness. In the geometry of such experience the observing self is at a particular suspended vanishing point, a zero point as opposed to the infinite vanishing points that are the generative or originating unknowns and which seem to be factual. And yet no world can be experienced without a living body, which serves as both object and medium. As object it is part of the world, but the world only appears through it, or to put it another way, no matter what else we contribute in the way of thought the world is built up entirely out of sensations, and sensations, while anchored in some way to that special subclass of them we call our body, exist no where at all.