As if you are always being asked, "So?" and you scramble to come up with what might fit the bill, what is closest to hand, and your choice, if it is banal enough, is greeted with a chorus of approving grunts by a large but otherwise silent and invisible audience, a humming sound whose reverberations define the cave, and regardless of whether it leads you deeper in or out of the murk. From moment to moment you are always responding, and this spares you from having to stop and wonder what the sense of it all is. You only need to immerse yourself in your long brown history of la vie moyenne sensuelle and bounce back from there, unsurprisingly and in your native idiom. It's what others seem to do all the time, just being themselves, or just lovable imitations of themselves, and perhaps you are just as lovable or ridiculous in the inevitable eye. A soupy naturalness, a magic pudding with the emphasis on the pudding, a not very funny or absorbing kitchen-sink comedy or family romance, endlessly repeating the same one-liners, always on, inescapable, consuming your life and your dreams. Not enough attention is ever given to this gauge of embodiment, this base-note of recurrence, the thickness and opacity and musky aroma of fundamental and axiomatic yin.