When I'm home alone in my apartment, which is almost always, my routine after work is usually to decompress by staring out the window awhile and then cook or nuke up or barely cobble together the supper I eat at a small dining room table whose familiar clutter affords the freedom of letting my mind wander to thoughts of waiting for more dust across the bookshelves or when I'll water my nerve plant again or watching sunlight pour in on the clearer days or even less than that — and to an outsider walking in on my meal, I suppose I might resemble Lee Kang-sheng in a less discussed scene from Stray Dogs in which Lee sits hunched over a lunchbox in a rare rainless moment silently, hungrily devouring rice and gnawing a chicken drumstick to the bone, and while what he or his character is thinking about is anyone's guess, I like to imagine it's very little and we each are simply absorbing the mundane everyday around us, chewing and staring into the middle distance, vessels of response to the stimulus of where our life’s next sentence might begin.