If you imagine it to be built up from nothing in a series of moments, the first ones would correspond to setting the stage, and these being indefinite would be plural, intermingled and dependent on each other in circling ways that make no sense, while the last stage would be this most vivid here now, the subject, conscious at last and utterly particular, possessing direction or intention, and turning this marvelous gadget around to see where and what he was. The subject is a finished or crystalised point of view and appears to itself as complete simplicity, as the primary axiom out of which every thing is derived as a result of his investing some of his being. The object is contingent, he graces it with his attention, delivers over some of his delightful particularity for its unfolding. The set of frames, all the structuration that preceded him is pushed out to the periphery, as if it is a realm of vague objectivity behind the object. The subject's imperative is to annex all reality but he's uneasily aware that he does not originate himself. If he tries to get upstream of himself he trips and lands on his arse. Rather than turning himself inside out he should consider turning the whole picture inside-out, that is right-side up, and trying again. The end point, intentional consciousness, is the dead-end, the only life to be found, his only life, is in what comes first, what, once he'd thrust himself into the light, seemed merely the horizon.