Prismatic subjectivity is when there is a guiding thought which renders the events of the inner life according to a way of treating itself as object, like a texture brought out by a certain colour and angle of light. It is a vein of thought, of strict discovery peeling back a layer of the ever-present. You want to overhear the mind's conversation with itself, to provide for yourself that reassuring multiplication of positions, a sociality independent of sociality but which proves that it is contained. But then there is the stage in which all of this fails, when the life or energy has drained out of it and the crystalline sharpness of prisms softens into slow floating clouds of warm grey mindstuff. This is the point at which thought subsides into dreaming, at which the surface melts into a watery space and that other mind that has been waiting at the edge the whole time is released into play. It doesn't borrow from your energy but takes up with its own where the day leaves off, it is yours too but there is a kind of fear at the transition, stepping over the border, the surrender of the day, its failure and incompletion handed over, now to be cradled in that other truer life.