The “little me” lives solely as the observer in suspension, realizing itself in a delicate momentary stillness. When action arises too quickly, it speaks only as the “empty me”—a mechanism, a trained mimic of what thought ought to sound like, void of agency. For the little me to actually speak, there is a necessity for a pause, a vigilant silence in which words are gathered, owned, rather than merely spoken.

In this state, the little me sees clearly that words are often only echoes, repeated autonomies, caught by the empty me in the reflexes of noise without meaning. The empty self is merely performed, capable only of assuming form but not of shaping intention. But when the little me pauses, it observes, and in that brief pause, it endures the presence of another self—out there—inwardly distinct, the same paused.