Even when the attention's undivided, it's divided. And when it's whole, it's partial. And when it's full, it's depleted.
Isn't this the story of the category of categories? There's some sense of 'border', verge. An outside to the inside, a beginning before which we refuse to see there's something, and an end after which there's no confessed continuance. Self-containment.
What bounds me is me. I encapsulate the stuff of myself. The world I've seen I've seen, the day I've lived I've lived, the others I've known I've known.
Accuse this of being solipsistic, and what can I retort but J'en m'accuse ! And if the French is wrong, the judgment's based on la diccionaire que jai l'ecrit !
Arrest me, but know that it's on the basis of my own guilt and personal self-condemnation.