Aside from the habitual currents of thought, or the excavations (are you digging a mine shaft or only an underground carpark?) into the stubborn knots of language, there are various frames that go on quietly in the background maintaining the thick contexts into which you re-emerge each morning, into which you entrust yourself. Such a one is the course of life, the idea of the point at which you are located in your finite life history. It is a version of freedom, of sudden decompression, since you are never in the same place and every reciprocal link you've forged with others, all the unspoken mutual reliances that hold the spaces, is always in suspension. It is the first thing that comes into sight when everyday oblivion is shattered by an event, and you suddenly wake up to being alive. No need to see that this whole structure has been constructed because the moment it comes into sight that is the first thing that hits you. It is braced by that very shock.