Step back, without disengaging anything and in clean ignorance. It's quite vital this thing and it splits at its core into present and past, attention and reflection, and then over and over on top of these more of the same. It splits into a sharp presence and layers of echoing dream and image and although each kind of absorption plays by different rules they are all the same type of thing, happenings of happenings, made out of the same show-stuff. Something came over you, over your original voidness and it was on, without a stop, and headlong into thrill and fascination, like a great sheath of sticky and mirrored meaning drawn-over what was before. How could it possibly have started? Now everything comes back to this strange obsessive formation called yourself, or a self, an impossibly innocent and irritating presumption that bends everything into mattering so much that it begs the question before any question is asked. The weird thing is the way it takes the place of what it happens-for as if that were even possible while it's no more than an inescapable mirage of the way of the arising which has never moved the slightest from where it seemed to start without ever having done so. Everything is perfectly equal, a constant ahhh and nothing to disengage, you might as well embrace the whole circus with all you've got. Ahhh!