If there are times of strange newness when the layers of experience slide away from each other, fall out of phase and reveal how precarious and fragile even the simplest sense of presence is, there are also times of complete familiarity when everything locks back into synchrony and it all becomes seamless, perfectly at home, and when it is enough just to breathe. These times reveal nothing of themselves, they are folded inwards, asleep in their own life, serenely tolerant of desires as mild as reminiscences that flit like slow bees over the grey blooms of mind. It is as if the interior paramour without revealing any more of herself has placed a calm hand on your head and you curl up warm and wide-eyed in the afternoon light.