You go on as if all there is is this contingent process in which you figure as a partial agent, determined more than you determine, but determining just the same, enacting your element, you inimitable style. Actually there is no you to be found, and you don't care, you rarely bother to look, but only the congeries of partial agents, delivered to the scene so that they can say their one line, do their one action, plan something, sort something, seem to decide, receive a consequence, play the body like a band, scrutinise the residuals. The contingency is such a wonder, why pause to consider that behind it there must be something that is not contingent, the real, the necessary process behind the apprehended one? At times it seems as if there were two, the lived one in the midst of conditions and the absolute one that sets the conditions as if they were so many notes or sketches in an unchanging game out of time and space. But the trick is that they are identical, that's what you can't get your head around, what you'll never get your head around as long as you cling to the absurd idea that you have a head, that there could even be a question of a head.