What could be more ordinary in a day than a walk down the street. Points of interest, the eye drawn there and there - this is for you, something you know, or want to know, to know about, to taste, it connects with some thought you've had which in turn flickers and wakes, is aroused, a line of thoughts lights up, you are in it, something being brought back -  you have a home here, a place, your recognition, even if the feeling is a certain awkwardness, it is a habitual awkwardness and fits you like an old boot - all of this in a moment, new with each moment, little pings like the sounding of musical notes, complex and multilayered, with different flows going different ways with different speeds, but not going anywhere, moving like moiré patterns. A lot may be going on, but functionally it just supports a mood, a good enough mood that sees you through to the next part, the next thing to do. A pleasant enough life, nothing special, this occasion and countless others in this street or other streets which after a few days or a few years were your street and wore your face, or faces. So this is consciousness? That a world appears, that a world appears to a one, that a one appears to a world. A whole house around that one, ports left open, but can he respond?