There is a latent self-reflective doubling of consciousness which quietly underlies the more obvious modes of self consciousness such as arise with the nuisance value of blowflies in Summer. The latter is content, it has colour or flavour and descends like a perfume which for all its insinuating presumption of familiarity, its vague aura of embarrassment, seems adventitious, something or someone you have accidentally run into on the street or when stepping into a train. The core of these doublings is however always located on the side of the subject and before anything else you are aware that it is something you have done. The doing is intimate but opaque, it comes up from the same seed as your good faith, it is there in exactly the same moment as you are, which is why you keep thinking of it as bad infinity like two facing mirrors. As soon as you try to touch the phenomenon its unfolds like a sinister flower because the trying and the phenomenon and the you are inseparable. It is a sleight of hand and if there is anything to be done it is to resist the misdirection, to keep your attention on the very point it is trying to distract you from.