If the idea was to report in the lightest and most unfiltered way the day to day changing nature of simply being here, to produce something like a fever chart of identification, then you must admit to have failed. It was perhaps more in order to uncover the recording instrument than to assemble a record that limned the object, if these two could be so separated, but either way the aim was to close in on the heart of the matter, on that point of inevitable unguarded honesty that was as true as prayer for one who had no one to whom to pray. To one who has no god there is only the the idea of death as that against which or in the face of which you would be compelled to truthfulness, so that looking back from the brink you could see a struggle to maintain a course in the face of the tempests of the mind. But the mind is like a whirlwind in that the closer you come to the centre the more furiously it hurls you out on a tangent.