The course of life or life facing death or pivotal moments that anchor memory, these are all versions of identity to be rediscovered in relation to the world. Without them you are in danger of melting away into pure formality, into the empty operation of presencing. But in taking it in this way you let the world precede you as if it is indeed true that you are thrown into it and must scramble for some sort of handhold to keep from falling. If you are thrown where did the world into which you are thrown arise from? It flashed into being a sliver of a moment before you arrived since there is only you to witness it, the questioning face of the same world just out of phase. Better to see the thrownness as thrown too, thrown like a pot on a wheel and because you happened to have blinked at the crucial moment you came in backwards, preceding yourself as world before the arrival of arrival. And so the first thing you look for is yourself, or what you learn to call your identity. The whole story crystallised at once and you loved the impossible drama of it. There is no identity to be found because you are the very world you haunt folded in simplicity.