How deeply ingrained the habit of assuming that life is lived from the inside out, instead of being a phenomenon that only ripples and flies on a surface. That is all there is to the self, the culture of a direction, to explain it all as the adventures of an entity that expresses itself in actions and dialogue with a world, a sort of opera, music and all, a mysterious kernel unfolding, wondrous narcissus. The self is a progressive narrative, with all its motions in the direction of unity and freedom, of apotheosis and death, discarding evil for the greater glory of the good, awakening from the good for the greater penetration in evil. This love of telling tales arises as a natural way of interpreting the fact that being alive is felt as a sort of choice, the living part of it, a sort of affirmation, and most of all a sort of action. What am I but the determination of this, the choosing acting in response to the understanding of the very situation, also an act, also an understanding? This is why life makes a sort of sense, it unfolds, is continuous in a fragmentary and recurrent sort of way, loops, twists, rejoins itself in other roles, and can never coincide with itself. I can only attend to objectivities, but the attending is no objectivity, it's me! Let me bring it closer! The initiative springs from a something so close, so marvelously happy, who could doubt it, who could fail to go along with it? No one, no one at all, only necessary and complete disqualification from inexistence.