Paradise worlds, worlds of desire. But these are marred simply by the knowledge that someone has already been there, not merely in the same place, but in the exact same state as evoked by that place, that scene, that tableau of pure gratification. Somebody, even you yourself, enjoyed it before you and moved on, no ultimate satisfaction was achieved. It leaves a shadow on the even the juiciest anticipations. Oh, but the world has been a massive fireworks of desires cultivated and gratified, the prospect infinitely rich and colourful and tawdry, dwarfed only by the sombre fanglings of suffering. There's nothing new in this direction, but that doesn't stop you from rushing in. The persistent hope is that some destined spark of the eternal will arise within the fire of pure enjoyment, enjoyment that goes beyond what an anyone could have, that cancels yourself as anyone, that is the rediscovery of absolute uniqueness, beyond symbolisation. There is nothing more common than this, it is at the core of that murderous entitlement constitutive of desire. It must be pure illusion, illusion at its purest, you've seen through it a thousand times, made bitter ironies of it the morning after, but it has never stopped you. The argument from desire renders your worldly wisdom foolish.