To go back up through the axis of yourself. At every moment there has been something you held as the truth, as your truth, but you haven't always known what it was, never had a full understanding of it, but it has always changed with the days coming down. You could never know or face the beliefs on which you rested but somewhere, in your most intimate outside, in your extimacy, they were entirely exposed and collapsing on themselves. You can recognise your commitment, your wager, immediately, so that if you went back to an earlier moment when you were in the midst of other conditions the first thing that would strike you with sharp embarrassing familiarity would be the collection of beliefs that were being ventured. It would be painful, even if now you could do no better, as far as beliefs are concerned, but merely being past, and having been yours would be enough to make them false. You are in flight from yourself, up through that axis, gathered around what seems most real, most to be valued, most worthy of being acted upon, even with your finger held firmly on one side of the scales. As if your life were a long and tedious argument, refuting itself as it went and swerving away from the consequences of each refutation. This is about the way you don't map into time, even as you have no other medium than time to know yourself in. As if what you are is the collision with appearance which can only shatter into those fragments you call time, the time of your life, each isolated and erroneous shard holding the entire image just outside its grasp.