Intentionality is a fibre of will, like an individual fibre come free from a length of twine or a twisted rope, loose, a cloud of them spastically pointing in the same general direction but attached at only one end. Fine enough and free enough to respond to the vibratory fields of thought and feeling which crackle around it like static electricity. Without this moveable splinter of will these remain ghostly, unable to be embodied, to belong to a purpose. The larger currents of will are too strong to embody a recognisable self, they are instinct with the raw stuff of self, undifferentiated, unquantified.