As time turns around revolving in its great and lesser cycles you find yourself in ever new positions on the carousel and it is almost as if you can look across and see and feel yourself newly embarking on some remembered dance, only it is not you but another soul that has taken your place and altered it but within recognition. And you wonder how it can be so certain that it is the same 'I' that inhabited all those costumes, that extraordinary sense of personal identity outside of time. It is not memory or narrative because everything that comes to you in the kaleidoscope of experience is now seen as hollowed out and anonymous, roles perfectly substitutable, only this here, nameless and formless and timeless being one.