What you take as consciousness, as your consciousness, is only what it is by virtue of the background against which it shines-forth and into which it fades. This is clear enough for discursive, or intentional, consciousness which is never sufficient in relation to what it is about, and so much the less in relation to itself. It depends on something, something more conscious than itself, an other who listens to it; its attention is performed for another attention, without which, frankly, it would be nothing at all. And how can it be so sure of the ear of this other if it didn't hang onto the confidence of feeling consciousness, of unmediated body awareness? The outer and inner senses are diverse and their contents bear no intrinsic connection to each other but are brought together in something deeper again, an inner touch of which every sense is its own inflection, its own mood and tense. This inner touch, here, now, always, all ways, is nameless, pure particularity, more you than you could ever be, the event that gives you like the weather that gives sun or rain. Or beyond weather, the climate, the atmosphere, the space... it goes on and on, endless containments, endless openings. It is known because it happens, it happens because it is known.