The narrative evaporates in a sound. The body rotates, attention seeks the source. A field of movement and color begins to separate into objects. I wait in that seeking attention, not knowing. Finally there is a face, eyes and a mouth. The sound is interpreted retroactively, perhaps it was still echoing inside me though I did not know what it was. The person at the counter has said hello. Hello to me. History appears. I am such and such a person, who says hello back in a certain way to who the person seems to me to be. This moment is the past. I measure myself against this objectifying moment. Was I kind? Did I do a good job saying hello? If not, why? My past lives as the present, this old new narrative. Still walking. Attention is pulled to understand this world, this me in this world. But the body is mute. This strange animal sustains no objective self in either its excitement or tranquility. I suppose it has had enough of me.