Sensory and sensuous immediacy is taken to be the touchstone of the real in the absolute breaking point of the swell of time prior to thought, but this proves to be an absurdity or at least an exaggeration being the most fleeting of experiences, being the experience of losing the experience, of it evaporating in your hand. You have tested it by repetition - by repeating almost exactly the same sequence of adventures in a slowly varying landscape surely some sort of groove would be worn down into the flesh of the thing, of being? If once is not enough then what about a hundred times or a thousand? Or fewer times but with feeling? But no it turns out that none of these ideas work out. It is just as dream-like after the thousandth time as after the first, maybe even more so because now you are aware that each time might well be the last and nothing gained. You went into this with such confidence because it is evident, isn't it, that something in all of this must be real and by systematic variation it ought to precipitate out, there ought to be a nugget at the bottom of the beaker. But that is exactly what doesn't happen. It's the damned elusiveness of the real that makes you keep coming back. It's not that it passes you by, it's that you keep going right through it without seeing it.