Without a guiding idea there seems to be only the running-off of expired potentiality, a mass of sentience like static, resistant to any form. Something has to occupy even an empty stage and so it is this, like a nostalgia unattached to a past, to memory, or to time beyond the dust and drapery of afternoon light. The self is dug into this steady inward motion, half-buried, but entirely present, but too irritable for comfort. The world could perish and this would stay just as it is. It's what reasserts itself after the events have gone by, after the identifications have dropped away, when everything that could be surrendered has been surrendered, when the soul has gone on holiday. Sooner or later you have to face it, bear up without a face to look out blinking in the raw light over the sea, and without words or body, without love or desire.