I feel unhappy enough to tell a blank screen that I am sick with worry and have given myself headaches. I am driven to say that false teaching fails because it must bewilder and it must promote error and frequency in equal measure. There is no use proposing any other transition; or, more precisely, there is no use proposing further references of that kind by recourse to any other motion. Something inside over-extends me. It is as simple and unavoidable as that. I cannot indicate complete separation from what is bearing upon my mind. It feels like this: The Earth refers to my Father, as he thumbs across the back of my neck, parenting. He is tactile, omnipresent, and indwelling, I am told. This is no exception, either. He gets to provide - licensed by the regular findings I am given. The identification of these forms a coterie of reconstructions, which work to remove possibilities I might think I have. I am only relieved none of this is ever discursive. He attempts, by felicity, to underlie his theories about the confines of consensus by emphasising freedom as he sees it. All that is humane is explicated; all that is humane is justified, a priori. I serve as groundwork. Elsewhere, on other days, I stretch back, reigning in some topical modus operandi, until it (and I) become dissociated, blunted. So much for such ring-fences, I always think. But this is how I escape the certainty of the framework.