There is so much repetition as the days follow each other and you find yourself thinking the same thoughts on the same occasions, going through the motions like a puppet, or rather you don't find yourself at all but are lost in these unpinnable moments, these cascading deficient instances of some remote specialisation of being. It is not a repetition in the events but only an expression of the mind's inability to register these moments as unique and irreplaceable, to disinter and identify them, to mark them on the map of time. This appears to be a weakness of the mind, but it stems from the nature of subjective time of which what we call the mind is only one expression. As the past-continuous tense suggests in referring to them in retrospect the essence of these events is only revealed in the clustering of instances of near-indiscernibles, only aggregated do they acquire the density of lived experience. The distance between events is not to be measured by the imaginary duration that separates them but by the divergence of meaning between the families to which they belong. These families being an inherence of past and future instances, are outside of the flow of time. They belong to what we call identity or soul, which is in a dimension oblique to time. The truth is not experienced as such, but it haunts experience. There is an extraordinary poignancy to the awakened memory of moments of life which were not experienced as they were lived. What was there instead was an adumbration of this deferred awakening, and this is how even when we are entirely submerged in habit, lost in the dream, there is always an otherness, a sort of remainder. This is what would be left if we really could subtract away everything already known and taken for granted, the remainder being the zero-degree of livingness, ennui as the apparently etiolated and empty but in reality utterly dense and full, pure thick undifferentiated being - and only mistakenly dismissed as facticity.