If you lived by yourself and had short attention span, one of those moments, you would be bound to find yourself face to face with your own existence, as suddenly as a cat licking itself in the bathroom discovering its own reflection. The water in the thin-bottomed pot boiled happily, awaiting the grand entrance of the pinch of linguine that you clasped in your right hand. The stove was red hot, radiating heat and the unpleasant sense of a fire hazard in the making. The radio played on, lieder from a melodious baritone voice, wrapping the choppy Germanic sounds in a buttery delivery. Cars just on the other side of your apartment window crushed asphalt, one after another, days and nights, outnumbering the few pedestrians that venture out for a night time stroll by far. The recent burn on your left hand throbbed more vigorously as your attention drifted from the traffic to your own person again, standing barefoot in this kitchen. Just a few meters away, on the other side of some semi-sound proof boards, maybe another barefoot individual stood in his kitchen, lost in the contemplation of this slow moving sensation that filled his guts and limbs, which persisted after he closed his eyes. This hypothetical individual... you dropped the pasta you had been holding all that time. The white vapour bubbled up and gushed through the gaps between your fingers, making the skin moist. It was your hand and no one else’s. It was your own mind which, after fluttering about daintily, settled once more on your hand, your body, your perception of a contingent moment in a long series of such moments. Your gaze was the white blazing light of the makeshift lighthouse that swept through the dark endless sky, coming back to the same place, and finding something enormously unpleasant, and darting away again. The books, the projects, the conversations, the loves, the immediate meal that would have followed, all faded away, giving way to the consciousness that you had been fighting back, futilely. You knew everything else that you did was only a trick, a game -- interesting and complicated for a game, but still a game though -- to distract yourself from the bane that was your own existence. Then the moment ended. And you reached for the wooden spoon for stirring.