Tell a story, but the story doesn't matter so much as the telling of it. Tell the story for the sake of the telling which is always outside the story, and never completely transparent in its motivations. So often the telling is precisely so as to clarify the motivations, to prove the very telling, and in this way quietly admitting that they aren't clear and can never be clear as long as they rely on such telling, in the moment and gone with the moment. To begin you have to assemble a narrator strong enough to give consistency to the relation of telling and tale, or alternatively to make the telling out of the very inconsistency of the two which turns out to be a far less radical gesture than would appear. Telling and tale see-saw or swap places without changing the nature of the game. But here there is no story and no telling, only a sort of overture that doesn't open onto anything, as if the orchestra is endlessly tuning up, and all you hear are fragments you half recognise, washed out tones from a dozen different pieces none of which are what you came to hear.