There is the moment, each moment embedded in the ongoingness that you rarely consider all that must be accepted so that this can rejoice in its mute acceptation. That you see these objects as they appear and feel this way into the day, everything has its history, its adjacencies that hold it in place, other openings and each of them held in circuit by other moments until you reach ones of genuine perception orbiting distant suns. All the real and imaginary preconditions, and there is no difference between the real and the imaginary, it is all possible preconditions that could terminate in this quietly living particular. Between what you are and what makes you possibly lies everything, all myths, all other minds, all time and passage of time. The finest filiations are the most salient, that it is almost a miracle that you are so uncreative.