There is something like an object which is the lure in all desire, its cause ad its point of focus, but this cannot be anything like a actual object, and adventitious other. It is recognised immediately without the need for any interpretation, it is not given, it already is. Being thus of the self t is easily confused with a kind of memory a repetition of something one known, a prior fulness, but it must be more than that, it is out of time. It is the very self, estranged, but more present than present. If it is to be thought then it deserves a transcendental deduction of its own.