But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.

The mind can weave itself warmly in the cocoon of its own thoughts, and dwell a hermit anywhere.

The terrible fluidity of self-revelation.