You comport yourself in relation to time as if becoming were the surface of being, as if it afforded an entrance to the unchanging. Habit and repetition cut channels into earth and stone, into every kind of matter so that it seems they must also cut a signature into what it is that lies beneath time, as if you could gain some purchase on the eternal, as if that were something solid. And when this fails you conclude that there is only becoming. But what if the eternal were light, lighter than any matter, too fine to take any impression? And never other than beyond accomplishment?