Idealism is perhaps a matter of adding something to experience, an extra thought ingredient, a dimensionality sustained by the most delicate acrobatics of thought, one that subtly alters its frame. It is an exhausing but brilliant virtuosity, a performance meant to impress. Here though it is something else, a matter of subtracting something from the frame of experience, the result of the rigorously pursued observation that there is something redundant, obtuse and persistent that has become attached to the way experience is framed. This pervasive tincture is less than a belief, but can be indicated in a Harding-esque way as if it were the faith in the independent existence of the unseen reality of your own head. Let the idea of your head be as it may be and look to the leaning on it, to the displacement of its centre of gravity into a mysterious elsewhere. It acts like a catalyst, doing no work itself, being empty of positive meaning, and yet transforming all that it touches. Above all don't do phenomenology, but simply see the reduction as a mistaken duplication of the serenely obvious.