Another version of it is Rimbaud's 'Je est un autre' -  penetrating into the most intimate centre of consciousness, the very basement of yourself, you find that you can go still deeper, as if through a trapdoor, and that in doing so you lose connection with yourself, and you emerge in another life, an other's life of unrecognisable and a-human forces and dispositions. This is not unlike the psychoanalytic idea that the ego is a fragile segregation of unconscious processes, of primary processes which constitute a sublime and unrecognisable form of oceanic mind which continually threatens and tempts its fragile boundaries. All such notions seem to be pseudo-profundities bolstered by the charisma, the earnest craziness, of derangement. Where have you gone when you have descended to the basement of yourself, what have you changed by disordering your senses? You may have turned your errors on their heads but they remain just as much your errors. You are exactly as close and as far from yourself beneath surface as upon it, your very eagerness to report your coincident otherness shows that you are still playing the same game. What you've uncovered is the authority in the game, or at least one version of it, you've seduced with style. Who, again, is an other? ... I am! How different this all is from 'Thou art that.'