From the dizzying contrasts, the false starts, the overleapings, the things held-high and then burned, the baits swallowed hungrily 'to make the taker mad', vomited up somehow, there ought to have developed the beginnings of a systematic detachment. This was never his way, except in the narrative that went with it, and that always managed to slide itself down over the moment like a sheath, habitual, his own action, without his having noticed, putting a driver's seat down at the front of the engine, and lo, there he was in it, as ever, steering madly, blind to the round. Where discrimination ought to have been, where it was indeed felt to be, there was just as soon this skittish, nervous, back-tracking mind, searching for and holding on to the flimsiest reassurances, discomposed by a heedless word that dented his private joke. But that was just the story of discrimination, say between mind and witness, and if it goes up in flames and everything goes awry that is the witnessing finally at work, if work it is to deny the mind any sort of handhold, to deny the moments and the cult of moments, and quietly without any sort of reflection, to point here out of time.