When an insignificant moment from the past is suddenly and vividly recalled it appears to have been something like a missed portent, as if reality was gently tapping at your shell and suggesting that you question it at that very point, asking that you notice the tiny crack. The moment is recalled as one where desire overrode and took the changing light or texture or quality of self-consciousness to refer to a vague promise of future gratification instead of what it was, something entirely in the present, an invitation to a particular kind of doubt. All you had to do was to nurse this small and kindly doubt, your only inheritance, without any desire to trade it up to something else, to something seen as useful, as serving will, or the idea that you could have your cake and eat it too. What must be cherished is what has no use at all, what doesn't get you anywhere or move an inch from where you have always been.