It is clear in parts, this realisation, fairly shallow but with a good intuitive reach. That it is nevertheless proceeding is of small significance in the larger context. It matters little beyond a narrow horizon whether it moves slowly or quickly towards its always potential fulfillment. What delays it, say its exemplary attachment to the particular twists and quirks of a certain kind of individual life, by no means remarkable, is probably where most of its value lies - this too, oh Lord, shall suffice. It arises already within a crowded field of monotonously problematising souls, and being near the margins saves it from some of the many self-defeating speculations that it nonetheless embodies. But if it lacks grandiosity it is hobbled by a too insistent modesty and a cracked and often-betrayed self-reliance that errs on the side of mistrust and paranoia. The psyche is deficient and thoroughly second-rate, but it is quiet and supple enough to find ways of working around this, knowing that it doesn't matter much in the end. You can get there in a rust-bucket held together with string and gaffer tape and with a torn map on your lap as well as in the latest brave hybrid equipped with GPS and state of the art robotics.