You always think that something needs to happen, to be happening, so you have to do something, agitate in some way so as to get it moving. In order to quietly look at what is here some show needs to be set up, a Potemkin village of your latest theory of the self, subtly stage-managed so you can almost believe that you just came upon it. The line gets drawn very fine, but the effort comes naturally, or at least is second nature. And without this what would there be? Just nothing, it seems, you without make-up, a sad clown in an empty theatre who looks in the mirror and sees the ravages of time, his own mortality and the pitiful ineffectualness not only of everything he can still do, but of everything he ever did, to change it by one iota. Not to do, to sink into not doing, is to fall into this cloud of impotence and despair, and to stay there for at least as long as it takes to realise that even impotence and despair are a form of doing.