Our lives - not the world, not life, but ours - are too large for us, for me to have hold of. My thoughts? I think too many things. My past? What there was to it, what pasts and futures of its own it accompanied, what a morning seemed to mean - not a tithe of a grit of all this looms near enough to memory to traceably alter the lighting of what's remembered. Most of what I own is strange to me. No pound of my flesh, no matter how artfully carved, would fail to repel me if met on the bus window. It's not that things fade and fall away till we're next to nothing. It's worse. In the sublime we encounter inside us the slag from seam-burstings without. With this other, though, before our foot can touch ground it must dig and slide through a hundred crumbling, dissimilar models. It's not a second sort of sublime but it makes the first possible, since once our view's cleared the ground always proves too close to dodge, too far to not crash when we land. We take the credit for what isn't ours - ourselves. We aren't the snowglobe. Most days we're not even its smallest tinsel fragment, but rather we're water in waters too wet to know just where we end.