Do you some­times at ear­liest waking observe your­self strug­gling towards a pro­noun ? Do you flee­tin­gly, as if from a great dis­tance, strain to recall who it is that breathes and turns ? Do you ever wish to quit the dai­ly come­dy of trans­for­ming into the I‑speaker without aban­do­ning the wil­der­ness of sen­sing ? The sen­sa­tion isn’t mor­bid ; it is ulti­ma­te­ly disin­te­res­ted. For me it’s a fami­liar moment, boring and per­sistent and disap­poin­ting. Again one arrives at the thre­shold of this par­ti­cu­lar, strai­te­ning I. With a tiny win­cing flou­rish one enters the wea­ri­some contract, sets foot to planks. Daily the humi­lia­tion is almost for­got­ten, until it blooms again with the next waking. It is an embar­ras­sing per­cep­tion best stoi­cal­ly fli­cked aside, left unre­por­ted. With an obs­cure hesi­ta­tion one steps into the day and its frame and its cos­tume.