There is something to hold on to and I seem to be able to sit up and lean forward. Things are coming into focus. The world is a little more reliable than it was. The familiar is comforting but it never ceases to surprise. I have no names for the familiar things, let alone the unfamiliar. As G K Chesterton said somewhere, To a baby a door is as fantastical as a dragon. I certainly have no syntax to string the events of the world together. What follows what, why, and how, is beyond me. But something is drawing me forward into it and it's pretty good most of the time. Certainly it is fascinating. Dazzling even. I seem to be a me, or almost a me. At least I am a someone or a something and the world seems to like looking back at me. It even makes sounds at me and I make sounds back at it. That's if the world is not me. Somehow I think it might not be me. But then what is it? And what is me? Perhaps if I just lean forward a little and look a closer it might become clear. Something, at any rate, is happening. All well at mission control.