You are not your self, your own possession and private labyrinth of interior significance and reflective surfaces. Neither are you in any sense, shape or form “owned” or prescriptively and unambiguously defined by any external realm or anchor of reflexive cultural necessity. You, and I, and the whole world are not the endpoints or causal fonts or baptismal pools of experience, the source of purpose and value or the pinnacle of existence. We are all, quite simply, and both animate and inanimate alike, the mezzanine and intermediary function of a world and awareness divided upon and through itself; inflected, warped and flowing through some mischievously enigmatic and self-gravitating logical absence that the very presence of structure and ordered pattern (of world, of thought and experience or memory) invokes but that is only ever intelligible to us as emptiness, negation and the intractable chaos of a proliferating, yet creative, entropy that is both everywhere and is nowhere, simultaneously. The immediate, intimate, tactile world we perceive and experience is simultaneously the blind-spot that obscures our selves (from ourselves) and it is that which in seeking it’s own completeness through us, can never find it but must endlessly reinvent us, just as we must endlessly reinvent the world.