Biography, or your sad history, sets tight bounds to what you can experience and to what you can draw out of what you experience. You are aware that the past is what has been spun out of your bowels, and that you are responsible for every last element of it, including all that you have forgotten or repressed, and yet you cannot convince yourself that you are this unfolding, only that you cause it appear by something that isn't a means, that leaves no trace, and that is the same whether you are happy or sad, good or bad, solid or melting away. It is not presence, and yes, it is one of the first errors to take it to be so. Presence is transitive, is presence to, and so ineluctably tied to the process of the world. And to speak of the world is to mean the world you'll leave, the complement of the non-biographical fact of non-existence. The abyss only seems to exist in relation to the edge from where you imagine falling into it, but that edge, that brink, is nothing at all - the world is only world, impossible to deny, and so is that nameless other of the world, itself and impossible to oppose. What you would hastily call presence is as well named death. When there is no relation there is no opposition.