The subject is taken to be what always and exclusively confers meaning, even as you live submerged in polysemy, so much the more work for the subject. So it seems that the ultimate matter of experience is a rubble of entirely empty sensations, grunts and gestures, proprioceptive twangs and strokes, a stochastic music out of which you force sense, or rather out of which sense fizzes simply be your attention and proximity. Some of it may be crazy but it all comes from you and your crazy unfathomed depths. It may not be like this at all. What if the confetti of fragmentary participations comes ready-made? Or mostly so, and merges seamlessly with your own productions and their sense of being produced by you alone? This is how other subjects are interwoven with your own. Words on a page, for example, are squiggles of pigment that you make into words, pictures, voices, but at the same time they originate from someone other. What is you blurs out into an ocean, a hive of voices, of eyes, of living realities.