As it goes on here in this moment is there a world in which you find yourself engaged, thus and so? Is that the best description, the long habit doesn't prove it so? Writing, reading, sitting, tracking, doing, in the midst of things, with contention or without, or questions, with emotions, background music, or without, drinking water from a glass, wondering what is possible, what others are capable of, what you are capable of, in the slow turning of the day. Is it you that is most real or the world? The centre sliding between poles but never fully attached. It goes this way, an adventure not yet ended, but which has to end, why? Who said that there was you and the world, that thinking this way is the way it has to go? It has to go. Nothing is sure, what you call your life is an essay in being, is not being, is in question, answered contentiously, a piling up of premises that you launch against other premises, piled up other ways, in the same way. The emotions or feelings telling a different story than the words, something just out of reach. There is no place for you in your world and no room for such a world in you, as if there had to be at least two things, the object demanding a subject, the subject demanding an object, when there can only be one, and not even one. Name and form, you and the world, the witness and the play, not even one.