It's not what you are, you aren't anything at all, but the quotidian inevitability of what you are, the inevitable beams and joists that hold open the house in which you never dwell. That's where mind has surrendered itself to frame the room in which you think to find what can't be there, as if you needed something to push against, staring at the flickering light of one candle and the shadows on the wall, the gift you can't receive without recognising the giver everywhere, the giver who is the gift.