The wave of absence that has become the life of his sighs, touches the secret, cringes and turns away.In borrowing from the numinous it entices the blind, who seem to always follow, somehow mistaking its enticement for an answer. So Oedipus remembers the old road brokenly, the landscape there, yet never again spread out before him, appearing and dissappearing, liminal, yet holding him, even as he cannot now hold its contours.