The purest lyricism does not partake of the account or récit, it is not an I-story, even if the I is a dreamer, but a drawing out of image after image, not disconnected but a-connected, like the seeds of so many potential narratives without any narrative linkages, weightless. It is like the pure poetry, the dream songs that the dreamer sometimes utters under the spell of a mysterious and ecstatic inspiration. It is free improvisation which evokes an absolute playfulness, the unfixable truth of the essential playfulness that is here at the core of all experience but is rarely noticed because it is so rapidly crystallised and imprisoned in meanings and intentions, enslaved to the purposes of an inexistent 'self' or 'truth'. It can't be forced, it descends on you at rare moments and the bliss is so strong that its aftermath, its complete indifference, can be devastating. It is not disorder, but order itself is play and hence without limits. It is the only way in which the mind can even begin to encounter itself.