There is a layer of inner monologue, not very artful for the most part but essentially well caricatured by writers, poets and comedians. Even when you are talking to yourself there is a staginess about it, it belongs to the cultural belief that individuation is in the end a sort of dialectic, is inherently social. Have we not begun to outgrow it? Aren't monkeys the most perfectly social of beings? We can only give up one social network by adopting another, and none are entirely stable, none can keep us from diffusing into our simulacra. As refined as we seem to be, we have invented the other, the alter-ego, a sort of god, and as this invention occurs for each of us it frames an always prior event, a sort of big bang, the catastrophe creation of a fundamental split. It is the origin of subjective time, the idea that consciousness is the kind of reality that is contingent and repeated, that it is only one instance out of an infinite plurality of other consciousnesses, all equally real and ephemeral, flashing out and then gradually being extinguished. This event finds us in a universe filled with a mysterious background radiation - something for psychology, for the folk psychoanalysis which is our fictional metaphysics of being, to explore without end. It is however only a layer, a band of noise that gets louder as we approach it until we find that we have somehow passed through it and it begins to fade away and we find ourselves still falling, surprised to be peace with others who are suddenly found to have become irrelevant, now perfectly alone with nothing to say, and still falling.