The mind only recognises what it relishes, the flash of new traces glimpsed on the wing and the arousal of a keener curiosity set baying to follow them until they fade in the sand, and they always fade in the sand. It is work, it is drama of a kind, it is the dignity of a quest, like any Holmes he can be roused from his pessimism and melancholia, slough off the shadows and go forth. Every mind has its vice, what it enjoys and does best, and so the shape, always the same, that it tries to give to everything that piques it. So here as usual the resolution must be conceived as the fulfilment of the quest, must come with matching motives and drama, must be ready to be credited to the investigator, the hungry networked subject, the name in the mind. The value of the treasure must be in the work expended to gain it. It is unbearable and perhaps untimely to consider this cupidity not only redundant but a positive obstacle. As if it only makes the nut harder to crack and always gets there before the latest nutcracker. Consider putting it away, putting yourself away, the nut might yield to the merest stroke, impossibly light, and when it goes it takes with it all your gourmandising, and you too.