Whatever you are looking for you won't find it; merely because you are looking for it, and so already have some notion in mind of what it is that is sought, and you can't find what you already put there, can't be your own tutor. Like every idea it is already triangulated in your big map of the world, the dream-like place where you spend so much time uselessly puttering, it is a sort of mirage built out of words. And what else do you do? Knock down houses of words with hammers made of words, and occasionally build new houses out of hammers. It might be a smart game, but it's beside the point. Still, even if the instrument is made of wind it was your hand holding it before blowing away. You were up to something, and even if your intentions were absurd, something moved. Where did you get the idea of something impersonal, consciousness, totality, language? Who taught you to mouth those words? Acting smart, but there's nothing more personal than appealing to the impersonal, and from there it's just an abyss, gets more and more personal, past shame, past words, past triangles.