Being irremediably ignorant is bad enough, but there is the additional problem of being unable to live up to what we do know. Something is lost in the space between our minds and our speech, our imagination and our limbs. We betray ourselves. As soon as we are in someone else’s field of vision, our knowledge creeps under the couch like a frightened dog. In the presence of another we are another to ourselves. And the other too is another. Something dies, and something is born. And all that is left is that meeting, its material existence, its strange independence. The meeting too is mostly ignorant, and unable to live up to the little it knows. It is pure creation, a continuous lie no one involved buys into. Each side wonders how much of it is making it through to the other, each side longs for and dreads communion. We raise our guard and knowledge evaporates. All that matters is the game, the war. Winning.