Timor mortis conturbat me. For some it might be enough to begin with a strong intimation that they are about to die. Not the conturbat but the calm that comes after it. Is that decreation or deconstruction? The sudden collapse of all the lines through which you sought for continuity. Structures dissolve and you see how they fall, and so how they were put together out of a belief that ultimate value was there to be found, in thereness, in o-therness, in others. Only alter-egos were reflexive and complexive enough to be players in this game of deferral that you'd been practising, to make it work by passing the ball in such a timely manner. Now, all investments are called in, you are alone, alone before the prospect of your annihilation, which is, you now acknowledge with a surprising relief, as alone as you've always been. None of those strategies could ever have worked, they were not there to work, they were like literary terms, objectives, motives, means, obstacles, alliances, rivalries, etc., just what they appeared to be and nothing more. What's gone is the mystification, the fetishisation, the fearsome and feared priority, the secret romanticism which seemed the link between your unachieved intimacy and the social. There is no trace of the God of the philosophers, nor of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Moses, only perhaps an understandable misreading of this vastness in which, had you ever really existed as more than a thought, you would be instantly and painlessly dissolved in serene fulfillment.