If you had to draw it it would look like a bright fractal splash originating here, at every distributed centre, and stretching so far into the distance that the underlying field would curve and be lost behind its swelling arc. And up close it would be made out of a linked pattern of tiny images of your flushed face with eyes wide open, mouth gaping, but elongated as if it was flowing away rapidly after the violence of its sudden re-appearance, and facing up and out of the page, chronically misdirected and unable to register its own dispersion. But from the middle distance it would be just a solid red, like a spurt of arterial blood, that you fully inhabited so as to be aware of no gaps, no resistance, just pure and thoughtless self-expression. But this image fails to capture something essential to it. If it is made of corpuscles they aren't just blood cells, thing-like packets of life-stuff, but some weird topology that captures the gaze and threads it through an impossible knot, a sort of Kleinian spiral (Melanie and Felix at once!) so that being outside is being inside and being inside is being further inside, endlessly. And so you can't either be or not be in the very centre of this thing pushing you out of itself, dying into birth, birthing into death. You could call it identification if that wasn't too macroscopic, too much after the fact, too hopelessly late.