In principle it is pure autonomy but it sure doesn't feel that way. The doubling, the internal separation goes right down as far as you can see, and it accounts for this slipperiness where there ought to be foundations, for this stubborn recurrence of all the dreamed-over predicaments. Everything is mediated by forms and the forms themselves only protrude a finger's breadth into light but extend back in anamorphic shadows, bouncing reflections back and forth into the very heart of nausea. The premises weigh down on you until all that is left is this strangled little nub of intention. And all of this vast heteronomy is the complete equation of liberty having yielded itself up over and over to facts and evasions of facts, like a headache that won't go away. Forms feed on forms and gradually become exhausted, unable to resolve or digest the least of them. Lose your innocence and it is endless diagnosis, all dia and no gnosis - time for a break.