Presence, but it is not present, is only what presences are present to; or thatness, the pure, the subtle accomplishment of events, the stillness against which everything moves, even stillness itself; or emptiness, but empty of all emptiness - it's what can never be named or pointed to, it pervades the naming and pointing as if they were never there; it laughs at is and never smiles, cries and longs longingly, aches and itches and never makes a sound; sees only because it is forever blind; you can't get behind what's behind everything; whether you in any of your myriad forms choose to appear or to explode in a shower of fire or go dark, drown in ice or sleep or mud; whether time counts or space enfolds, matters not a jot.