There is a world. We live in it, we see it, we feel its impact, but we do not know it in the sense of understanding it.

We know what it appears to expect of us, and this we do, more or less imperfectly, impatiently. For the rest, there is only the feeling of dead time slipping along, a time whose deadness appears to be generated from within in that, for others, time isn't so dead.

The most fundamental step we might make - might make - is to decide what we think about this world, whether we should or can have an opinion about it, or whether opinions are a matter of supreme indifference to it, another of the legion of mere things it contains indifferently, like expanses of grass, precipitous cliff-edges or unhappiness.