You can write about presencing and if you had more talent you could expressively evoke indications of it in a poetic fashion, but you cannot mean it, even as presencing seems to be the at the very heart of all meaning. Once the words are written they escape completely, you could die, that is cease presencing, in the next moment and it would make no difference at all. And the words themselves are snatched out of thin air by the writing process, out of some sort of intimate otherness which is never here. Presencing remains serenely elusive, it doesn't care, is incapable of caring, just as it doesn't matter at all, has no objective value. To think that it does, that somehow your wish is to impress it onto the world, onto the real, in such a way that it would be inescapably witnessed is a mistake, since this could only be done for some peripheral concomitant of it which was already a sort of object. It is not beautiful, not fragile and ephemeral, but so much the opposite of these as to beggar all imagination. You cannot care about it, but what you care about is precisely the way that it is indispensable to experience - no, more than that, that is the only thing that makes experience matter at all - without in any way being (an) experience. This is so strange that that it continually elicits your curiosity without in any way corresponding to any possible object of curiosity, or having any connection to anything you think of as yourself.