The same wondering as in childhood brought you before the immense gulf of your own gaze, so that your heart trembled at the strange gift of presence, is here wrapped up in layer after layer of old results, old findings, so that the distinctive rustle of original mind is just a nagging discomfort belonging to nothing and nobody. If there had to be a thought then there had to be this cascading history of thoughts and false doings that moved you precisely in the direction of this strange substitution as if burrowing straight down into the crust, the gravity, of dream. You take hold of it trustingly and it leads you down. The same child is now thinking this old man's thoughts, buckling beneath the weight of them, their tarnished splendour, their shadows and infinite diffractions, their cracked husks.