To whom or to what does this experiencing belong? The marvelous intricacy of a life-world being performed is so full of inner circuits of meaning and enjoyment, of thoughts and feelings folded up within deeper thoughts and feelings, dramas and opera buffa, that it obscures the one strange fact of its groundlessness. In every moment you seem to leap the gap to find yourself and to escape yourself so that the experiencing can come into form and melt away, in every breath, in the same breath, so that there can be a you to seem to ask the you who seems to know. The you is the half-formed organ of this eternal bodilessness, the silent urge neither wholly voice nor ear, and that is why it can't stop playing its endless improvisations on the monotonous and never-heard theme, making nothing out of sweet nothing, returning and departing, joining and dividing, a field and a point, ceaselessly creating forms in order to discard them. Only come to the centre of this and let the yous chase their tails in cycles and epicycles of rage and vanity and grim desire.