Before you this vast tangle of possibilities, purposes and knowledges, and behind you concentric rings of self-ness receding to infinity. And the boundary between the two is this breathing body extending its tendrils in both directions. And before you other bodies of the same kind in which there are altered versions of the same structure and which cannot be separated either from the inside or the outside from your own. It is a kind of picture that you live inside of, and the picture itself is distributed and echoed within itself so that there is no clear location for any of it, but salient channels that are partially constant within the ever changing inner boundaries. It seems futile to even attempt to form a picture of it and yet it is the only reality you have ever known, and it seems to depend on some simple but hidden premises, it seems as if there is a key to its complexity, but everywhere you look the pattern unfolds into yet more complexity as if there is something wrong with the very terms with which you try to resolve it.