Life is a text, it proceeds by contrasts. Every position gained instantly begins to founder, to give way to the silent labour of its opposite. Luminous in its momentary glory it flows and chooses lines that orbit unutterable ideas whose shadows on the narrative plane are the myths that we consume and that subsume us in our benighted desirings. Everything that goes by contrasts is a text that flows, and that makes a half-understood sense in its squandered heart of returning. The self is what has no opposite - which is why it is so easy to mistake for consciousness, the unchanging register and presumptuous protagonist of change.