Where does the bound quality that colours the 'malady of the quotidian' come from? It is insufficient to evoke a witnessing, since only violence can deform this ever-renewing event into scenic observation. If there were an experiencing self, the embodiment of the blank screen on which experience is displayed then the limits to pleasure or pain would be so vast that everything that belongs to this and here would be lost like a twig on the surface of a raging sea. And why this curious one-way time that so firmly holds us and bedevils us?