Actions, even the simplest of them, turning a handle to open a door, say, are intentions, not so much meanings as purposes, they are what you are as ongoing doing, these plural overlapping intentions that are both expressed and withheld in the flow of actions in waking or in dreamed reality. In relation to these thoughts are a kind of disengaged act that is the image of intentions. For much of the time such thoughts form a continuous branching web, every thought being prompted by another thought and in turn prompting others, reaching backwards and forwards and sideways at once, a 'though' capped with a 't'. Thoughts know the matrix of latent intentions out of which they arise, but not in an explicit way, they arise in consonance, more or less, with a background of self-reference that is strictly limited, bounded by whatever is taken to be the ordinary. If you interrupt the flow of such ruminations you can bend it back towards the implicit subject, towards the 'I', and this immediately translates by the identical web of references into a certain set of inner body sensations, objects of attention experienced in a self-reflexive doubling: the feeling of you-ness. It is no more than a dream of self-reference but so habitual that you take it at face value. There is supposed to be a fulfillment, a moment of perfect satisfaction in it but which is missed in favour of this objective and almost thinkable proxy. This is the normal way in which you allow yourself to slip through your grasp, and you fail to catch what might be the authentic and world shattering doubt that is concealed in it like a light behind a translucent screen.