A lucid mind can always find reasons behind its every act, and reasons behind those reason, delighting in its own transparency. Delight, fascination, originality promise more of being, which is a promise of groundedness. This remains a promise, however, undone by time with a perfectly equal hand. But you know somehow that there is more of being behind or within this glittering surface, some sort of gravity, a pull towards a centre which only keeps you circling. This is frustrating, but also perfectly fitting. It feels as if you were being tickled by being itself.