There seems to be nothing more alive than this fierce crystalline light of the pure presence, the sole vertex of existence. In another sense however it is nothing but a contingent interpretation of Time, and is far from exhausting time's potentialities. It is even possible to imagine being separated from it, seeing it 'over there' - 'you are that' now said ironically. It is the property of a protagonist of a way a story unfolds, an ineluctable story perhaps but still story. In spite of being the veritable hero of the cogito it is entirely lacking in foundation, as if you have walked the edge of a high cliff for the sake of the intensity of feeling on looking down. It is an experience and thus irrelevant. Where then do you look at it from? Some kind of thick temporalisation behind the screen of form, a peculiar intimacy that does not 'scan' as a subject.