Spontaneous thoughts that seem to stream all by themselves are always willed. It is as if your will is forced, as if you yield to their endless and chaotic persuasions; every one of them constitutes an act in which you are complicit. Awareness, which holds aloof looks on; attention is only given to what you do and now you are doing such thoughts. Where is the centre? It is neither in one nor the other, nor in both together. It is a kind of estrangement, a pervading feeling, which is also affirmed, perhaps even desired insofar as feeling wills itself.