I picture my present mind as an object inferred from many glances rather than a single gaze. Thin beams sweep the field at several angles; wherever a beam would pass through my hidden core, the trace thickens into short chords and then falls silent again. From those angled passages an unfilled body appears— not by contour, but by accumulation of evidence. This is my self as a sinogram: a sum of directional proofs that reveals inner structure while keeping the air around it clear.