And now existence constituted as the knowledge of existence within the existent is nauseating, impossible, horrifying. A seedling held within a thin accumulation of salvageable matter on the massif of anxiety. Up on this ledge unfolds the great tragedy of Being in the initial moments of consciousness. Waking (growing) up now, Being in paradise, or the happiness of those who know that they are sleeping, proves again (and again) Doradoean. Being in the initial moments of consciousness tries desperately not to leave Being in paradise as Being in the initial moments of consciousness helicopters from the overhang, no longer held by the loamèd escarpment. As Being in the initial moments of consciousness descends into mere consciousness, it has already breached its ownmost paradise. A self-imposed defenestration. The crime is waking. The punishment?

Being awake.