Whatever the urge is that underlies these inquiries, that has installed them in a certain current of thoughts, it is only something that arose spontaneously within this current, or mind as it calls itself. It belongs to its inveterate character, which is not entirely fit for any purpose, a fairly typical condition of such minds what with the diversity of demands to which they need to answer and the inevitable quotient of reflexive and self-engendered side-effects to their positive and even sometimes vaguely rational applications. If there is something in this that drives stubbornly towards the source it is a still small voice that only emerges at intervals, belonging to no one, but so unassertive that its lack of provenance isn't apparent. Or else it is a sort of unintended consequence drawn out of significant strands of intention which for all that they resist the great obvious streams of desire and reflection, the mind's perpetual Bloomsday, are its tributaries, inevitable consequences of its taking place in such a well-lit space, one on whom nothing is lost to the point of paranoia. What he ought to be doing, what he finds himself doing instead, the hand that grabs his collar and pulls him back into line, are all parts of the same play, identifiable characters with distinct personalities, fitted out with quirks, ingratiating or irritating as the case may be, and with motives that are perfectly transparent. That anything much will come out of this is doubtful, if there is anyone present to say so then clearly nothing has, but it does reach a point where there is as little good in stopping as in going on.