A slight defamiliarisation and you can begin to gauge your absorption, O this world is quite a fascinating place, but who exactly is fascinated? Traces of happiness are everywhere because everything promises a still greater intimacy than that of the senses and you don't even need to be in love. The sweetest experiences under the rule of passing time, of the rushed quality, yield only a hint of the fullness you still crave because you know its is owed. Yours is the wealth that needs no counting. It is every kind of happiness and there are as many distinctive colours and flavours of it as there are things you can conceive, and what you love is the explosive variety if not any one phenotype, because at core all forms of happiness are instances of one quality, of a tremendous recollectedness, something of the self, self-luminous, essential bliss. Only in this is there freedom from time. The self's nature is out of time and free of all quality - which you know but won't admit because it initiates qualitative experience in time. Bliss, being, knowledge are projections in this time which is no other than your self in its parting and re-embracing, its les adieux, fission and reunion, dualities that undo themselves in their very making. Every particular arrives here at this endless festival, this compliant orgy of phenomenality.