There is nothing in experience like subject-verb-object, no half-realised self-like thing aspiring to fullness; it's all streaming and intertwined lines of intention with no particular endpoints unfolding in endless kaleidoscopic variety with glints like reflected sunlight sparkling now here now there. But if that's a more precise version of it it doesn't get you any further, it might even be more misleading because it has filled in more of the blanks. Wherever the mind discovers a blank it quickly fills it in and anchors the filling to further rays of intention, endlessly spun. No, it's only that the whole mode of presentation is subject to sudden and complete changes in nature by the pulling of an invisible string, or the accidental bumping against a switch perfectly hidden in plain sight. It's like the way that the shifting of focus of a lens reveals the position of the camera out of any frame of represented space. Like that, but not in the visual field but the metaphysical one; a field you are always ready to swear does not and cannot exist at all.