Entities are so incredibly … themselves. Yet in this selfsameness they are weird, self-transcending. The chiasmic, contrary motion of what things are and how they appear makes a mockery of presence. Things emit uniqueness. They bristle with specificity. Purple, pale violet, light blue, their soft and sharp spines and flower-spines bristle forth despite me and my subject-object scissions. This flickering between a thing and its appearance is the reason why coexistence can’t be holistic. Something is always missing. My self-awareness is a sense of incompletion.