It's not theorising or an activity driven by a passionate interest because projects of that kind are undermined by their partiality, they belong to contingent identities, and one of the things this is is a weariness or a fecklessness of all identities. You admire them in so far as they are admirable, but can't or won't stand for one. No, it's just a curiosity about what is going on, about the endlessly varying foundation of states. So is this then a state? It's how words are used, but state is a passing condition of a something that is not itself that condition, matter to form. You don't know what it is only the condition that seems not to coincide with itself, a sort of ebb after waves and waves of participation. The waves break into ribbons of foam, their intent rush now yielding to this every which way of tiny currents, broken up, meandering and fond fragments that express a faith in sweet oblivion, a fountain of sparks falling back towards the musty green smell of night grass, to pure maternal matter, holding. And you want to do it again, and again, you won't let go, so now go down shut your eyes in pale light and the play of memories, the late sweetness, out of age, so improper, dare to feel, as if it was the very being enjoyed then.