The here and now, the stretches of time, the places, the lives and the I present themselves as fissured, or rather, fissure continually. The field of reality, discourse included, fissures in its entirety, like a struck glass…
No longer will there be night and day… Henceforth it is fissured day and fissured night. And it is in the minuscule chink of this fissure that the stilus is styled, in the precarious, reciprocal balance of enigma and demonstration.
Jean-Francois Lyotard The Confession of Augustine