You would seem to hold lightly to identity, with a relaxed grip as if ready to relinquish it at a word. To insist on it would be an error of taste and of logic, a sort of inversion of cause and effect, a presumption. There is nothing unique about you, you are just a kind of person, a coming together of certain experiences with certain mental and moral quirks, an ordinary venture of presencing. And yet being here is so inexhaustibly cozy, needing no grander epithet. The moments belong to their own occasion and soon evaporate, and yet each is perfectly filled, is a perfect instance for empty witnessing and quiet delight.