In each occasion you blossom in a certain way sending your tainted qualia out into the night air, as you are the expression of a sort of broken mandala, skewed and kinked in various ways. Throwing perspectives out from the heart of present roilings, like clouds seething with incipient forms. And you imagine that these failures of symmetry are what you are, or even more that this bursting forth of moods and colours and smells from an empty core can only make sense as a history, as a page in a miserable sort of novel that keeps being written, with causes and ends and significant encounters. The fiction keeps getting harder to maintain because it is broken up into so many fragments, the subject undeveloped, just a set of sketches of possible subjects, each one pausing on its way to sing a lyric or a lament, resuming the past in empty convictions and senseless sense. You never appear but as engaged with matters, deeply implicated in all the contingent and vexed terms that make for a personage in time and striving to make sense of itself of its life, to express, to get behind, to expand each contraction and contract each expansion. All of this inherent dispersion is always and only here-now and appears as such precisely because appearing cannot move an iota way from principle, from immovable centrality.