It looks like a motely collection of broken reasoning-things-outs adrift in a mighty sea of unknowingness, and perhaps that's exactly what it's meant to be, which is not the same thing, the accent being on the broken. But in so far as it's intended to be broken, with all the tediousness that that pose entails, it's broken too, cracked right down the middle, or just cracking a smile. Self-reflection is definitely not a thing, it starts way too late, is no more than an esprit de l'escalier, the mother of all e.d.l'e's., which is why it feels so much and touches the heart. Here is thin clear air, altitude, and bright light full of ultraviolet that shrivels things up instantly, releases their perfumes and bleaches them to a faint waft of ozone. You shall know them by their seriousness, "un peu trop sérieux" just because they talk such a good game and have staked real gold but not fool's. As if time was something that actually went by, as if to see otherwise you had to be able to explain what came before and what after, and stuff the eschaton in your pipe and smoke it.