Simply describing the experiencing at any pitch of life as it arises is almost impossible because there are no agreed names for the various elements in relation. But an essential part of every experiencing is a rich image of that very experiencing which accompanies it not as a description but as a deeply complicit landscape of possibilities and constants. Putting words to these throws you into capricious metaphors and symbolisations whose intended meanings seem utterly precise in the field of immediacy but which don't cash out in any dictionary. When you care to look you find yourself in something like a recurring dreamscape, a console and consolation for the subject who isn't really there, or wouldn't be but that isn't and is are still undivided. The more closely it is attended to the more the words take on a slippery allusiveness, which ought to rise to poetry but fails to do so through lack of any concrete correlates. A foyer, a web, a hollow, from out of the heart of the running imprint of concerns. All of this suspended in intermediateness, where what seems at first the walls and windows of a dwelling prove to be refractions of memories and gazes enfolded over waiting secrets and self-conscious echos of intention.