You have to admit that from the moment the first words are set down on the blank pad that the aboutness crystallises into something quite different from the strange absence that haunted the preceding vigil. You are now playing against interest imagined with the face of a nameless analyst. But it is only in relation of that strange absence that you wish to continue. You tried to find a seam in the skin of experience, but it was so smooth, so plastic, so soothed that it absorbed your searching hand in the very act of reaching, or the reaching was just a variant of the soothing, you had become all caramel, a slowly flowing toffee of fading delight. The true discontinuities are in the re-sets, never here but in action when you have no time to see how far reality is proving from your expectations, the concluding unscientific postscripts of the previous re-set that rattled around for days before being burned up in eyes and lips and yes and yes. You won't betray yourself but thankfully your words will.