Objectivity messes up with its own inwardness because it has an indirect quality of being something inside of something else; it self-destructs on introspection or change, like a bubble or spontaneous music. Forbidden to speak, the absolute clears its throat. “Inside the self, there is a self. Inside the truth, there is something like the self and/or the truth.” Unsure whether it’s a joke, we hold back our laughter. Words and neurons make a village where I am lost & unpredictable in a wicker basket of incremental circumlocution, unpacking my wayward thoughts like an overcaffeinated fire drill. Milking the mind for inside information about the construction of the self turns out to be an unnatural method. Meaning, subjectivity orbits its narrative like a dog chasing the moon. We can’t fit all the puzzle pieces back in the box. Memory is supposed to connect the subject to the object with a click, but I’m such a clumsy dancer, it all ends with rambling.