It's not like a book, you don't go deeper into it, your perspective doesn't slowly alter as the forms reveal themselves. Forms, perspectives, desires, these are just temporary fictions that attain some salience and then melt back again; the basic situation never changes and doesn't yield. If it is transparency then it is so on behalf of a hidden opacity, and if it is an opacity or a history or a soul then this is only ironic, is exposed in order to be immediately denied in the fresh transparency of the present. To know it would be irrelevant, would belong to a minor order, but the urge to know is the only way to speak of it, as if there could be one thing said that would answer for it, would be the words at the limits of saying; the sentences only words, the words only sounds, the sounds only significations, only gestures. Every utterance like every picture being only a locality, a region, a kind of weather in the trees and the sky, in the way the air is to breathe, to be the gratitude for breath, gratitude for the zero that iterates in its own silence.