Pure mood is as engaged as you can be. There might be a lot of self-coloured noise, perhaps a sort of dark confetti, but it does not cohere, so that no single reference point can appear. And this is perhaps because there is nothing resembling a sense of detachment, which would also be, by the paradox of a detachment that chooses, an operative ideal unity. Perhaps the phenomenal self has come undone and the diverse elements that are usually embraced under it find themselves drifting without direction or persistence in time, mere pulses of experience. An unconnected living moment is a dreadfully concrete thing, almost an unmediated state of matter - as matter is never something that just sits there, but is at the same time will in action. These pulses are like bursting pinpoints "de petites masses globuleuses, grosses comme des têtes d'épingles et garnies de cils tout autour. Une vibration les agite." Monads that have fallen out of harmony, éventrés, they expend themselves.