It's that absolutely particular in this, like when you wonder how you come to be the one you are and not anyone else, or what makes you not a p-zombie, how you can be so sure of that. It seems silly to ask such questions but you do so with childlike naivety, do they even make sense? And that too is another guise for it. You only touch the mystery in here lightly, by a corner, before it melts away into clouds, but it's always the same question and the asker of it has only a single identity in all of time. The questioning is not located in the heart of the heart but equally pervades all of what you think of as the field of consciousness, it is not pointed but spatial and without boundaries. And although it leans on all the good reasons why you are you and they are they it doesn't preserve you in any way. You feel you have to give up everything to come fully into it and everything looms larger and heavier until the startling realisation that you had no weight at all, that you could never be what you strive to be, but only some instructions in the glove-compartment or the nucleus, that sets the extraordinary dance going.