You talk in a vague way about feelings, emotions, desires, and these are beasts that with the habituations of living you find ways to coexist with even if you can never domesticate them, but there is no vocabulary for the different constitutions of self in time and space and possibility. Very different modes of appearance succeed each other but never lead you to occupy a point outside of all of them, a point from which you could survey the metaphysical diversity of the quotidian. Or perhaps there is an intimation of such a place in those broken hiatuses between dreams when you don't know who you are and all the shattered possibilities crowd around you without any one being able to assume you. It is a palpable amnesia that sets you up as the sole subject of each passage, a peculiar power that you can't know that you possess, that shapes this shadowy and upright 'I'.