Life has a narcissistic quality, seeking itself, drawn in the places between us only to that which, in us, is already itself. It admits no wants, and thus need not search for perfectibility. It turns its face to the complacent surface of its own sources, seeing nothing not made in its own image. No moving shadow can disturb the serene halo of life. No lack can extort any recognition of possible alternatives. No. The quality of life is drawn between us, only to that which, in us, is already itself. It sees no other thing, which, seeking also life, surrounds it; unreflexive, restless, which, beneath surfaces, returns the colours, creating, without comment, a mirror.