You aren't born into and die out of the world, it's that a world is born and a world dies, and in between it separates by stages into two parts that perform as if totally different from each other before blurring and merging back together at the end like a picture left out in the rain. The initial wonder, the wide-eyed gaze into the open, is because the separation was still only hinted at, and later when it momentarily breaks down - because there is nothing essential about it - there is poetry. The correlate of the world is soul, the totality of responsiveness, while self is its most punctual and fragmentary reduction. The self looks around and can find soul nowhere but in its own unease, a guilt perhaps, imagining it has killed it. Worlds are geometries that appear like bubbles in the spaceless.