It is always here complete, unstained and impossible to doubt, but you are the illusion of doubt and of having the Sisyphean task of bringing it about, as if this doubt is a uniqueness that can never resolve, but must resolve, the very disproof, the exception, of being. You work to bend the knowingness so that it passes through this aperture and delivers a stolen glory which justifies you outside the law. But whenever you seem to succeed the structure dissolves and the 'I am', the entangled knot of unique being melts into light. Like a face that is so familiar you lose all awareness of it and never look into its eyes, never discover that it was your first and only love, that the axis of the world passes through your heart, and always has, that you've never left Eden.