How else could you find it to be always in the present moment if that were not the invariant shape of it? Presence occasionally catching sight of itself and ceasing to answer to its notion. And then this other thing roiling away within that frame, including the thinking about it. It would seem to be made up out of a vast scintillation of tiny sensations, the way that a picture is made of tiny dots, or others think of it as rippling schools of firing cells, tiny dots of sentience that add up to this presence of a someone to a world. This is only an idea that bears on its face the unfolding scene and conceals its ideality behind a fascination with how it all feels. It is absurd to imagine that thought, that something as pure and colourless as ideality, can be made up out of sensations. Its nature is that much more hidden because you can't conceive of intellectual light. Identification is the falling into what boils inside the frame, but it can do so from the direction of, from the reference to, the unchanging. The present in both senses of the word can only be what it is by its constancy, its independence of time. Sometimes this is seen so clearly, and at other times it's lost sight of, but even the losing sight of is played on the same stage.