What is it that is constrained when one feels so bound? What needs to be looked into is precisely what there is no desire to look into. Take everything off the table and still there's that long picaresque history of foolishness, of foolish deeds following from foolish notions. That knowledge of you that is more than you, like someone's fore-knowledge, knowing it's there already understood, that to it you are no more than your old sad story. You are seen through and through from the outside, so that the true subject is concealed behind the objects and the subjective here just an endless evasion of objective elements in a determined play you can only mis-recognise in the uncanny play of dreams. But still you are answerable to this other gaze, in a sort of forlorn hope with no release, as if a special kind of will were demanded, a radical will, yet to be evolved out of identifications, appropriations, fresh discoveries. At last to be the vehicle of that will, to surrender to it and be only what it propels through time to some impossible vision and escape.