I know no other way out of what is both the maze of the eternal present and the prison of the self except with a string of words.
At the time I think I had something to say in response. Something about writing. Something about the maze of the eternal present and/or the prison of the self. I don't remember. Mom was here and I become absorbed by the need to make a meal or help with something. And then she was gone and I gave myself permission to space out for awhile. The eternal present is, in fact, a maze. In another line from that last paragraph Lapham says it more clearly than I.
The time is always now, and what gets lost is all thought of what happened yesterday, last week, three months or three years ago.
I wouldn't say all thought is lost but certainly whatever (no doubt) (cough) brilliant thing I was intending to write has gone. And, more to the point, nothing has replaced it. But I've been reading more. And reading makes me think about writing. It might be a beginning.
Or just another maze.