There seems to be a believing that is the eating of an endlessly cranking sausage called experience which in the tasting is a mental state much cared about, that undergoes kaleidoscopic involutions now open, now tight, now bitter now sweet, with an inner and an outer that keep changing places and overwhelming waves of flaour that leave no room for doubt that it is a happening to a you perfectly fitted to it, a sort of inescapable garlic, but somehow still askew and trying to get a fingers width outside. You shake one word loose by holding tightly to another word, as you seem to take it for granted that there is a definite sense to experience, which you don't really know anything about but others will recognise as you speak, although those others are themselves nowhere to be found, as if the way that it all works perfectly was not begging the question but actually gave it the certainty that it's not anyone's dream. But what you confidently call experience is not a sausage and could never pretend to be anything but the tasting having no past no future and most of all no present, and now that you look, no garlic either.