If you perform the self to determine the self, newly from scene to scene, from out of an inexhaustable spring of indeterminacy, an entanglemnt of worlds, then who is the observer firm enough in its own boots to fix you? Think of the past, your soul sweating out of your body, you sweating out of your soul, life like naphthaline giving of itself in fires, and see the whole thing rendered transparent, ridiculous those motives so obvious to everyone, a book that can't be unread or escaped. But here you are again placing the same bet, do you know which way the master will go, tip his thumb, the broad circle closing? Shame the gauge of this collapse as if the past could reach this far, its stunts its hints, its mastery theirs to draw the needle through the sack of books, of tunes, of expressed preferences ending the wave, in a feverish spinning to get ahead of crystal views by putting ideas into the skins of glamorous and well-formed doubles. It's such sweaty work! You can smell that incomparable, that distilled and stringy amber.