You are scattered in time, there are parts of yourself that you numbed so you could go forward, or so you thought. You still carry them along but you can't reanimate them. To only have these broken-off pieces, what's remains with its hollow ring disoriented, proud, that's all you have to want with; no wonder your desires go astray. You love anything that reminds you of the integral being you once were, as if paying your respects in this way were enough, cultured, headpiece made of straw. The simple ability to hold it together through all the changes, like people at a concert thrilled by the same music they first loved. To have the entire keyboard uncovered, every note, every past within reach, press the key and feel it, and for this to be so natural and simple that the self can get itself off its chest, can fulfill its destiny like any seed and die. The thread needs to pass back through the eye of the needle look over loop, the double concerto playing in a salon, in this dream-house, just the other side when you walk in to everyone's surprise. And so it goes on, this latest perspectivisation of a self, this earnest creation of time, assumption of all the emotions and declamations that go with it, the little drama revealed, drama of another revelation inside another revelation. You make this stuff up, you are the making up of such stuff, and nothing else besides, the impurity that sets off the crystallisation, except that its all made up, exists in a moment so perfectly fine that no perspective can enter it.