A man outside on a chair. A fly on the arm of an at least superficially identical chair a few feet away. The man reading a book, now watching the fly. The fly...though what can we say about the inner life of a fly. Many will even deny the inner life of a fly. I am not so crude however- not to imply that this lack of crudeness is any great virtue- but anyway I am not so crude, so totalitarian, as to deny the inner life of a fly. But even then what I can say about the inner life of fly? Nothing. It's alien territory.
Perhaps through some strange immersion in the deep silent spheres of being I can somehow sink into some existential commune with that worldess space that is the inner world of a fly, or any organic being for that matter, animal or vegetal, but even if I can- unpopular or at least unorthodox though such a notion would be- still this, as said, inner world is a worldess space, and so, also said, alien territory- the realms of wordlessness naturally alien to words.
But anyway, the man looked at the fly, as far as I know unthinkingly- perhaps not even much irritated by the fly, if at all- but suddenly up flew his left leg, so suddenly as to suggest a reflex action, unpremeditated- and kicked the underside of the arm of the chair atop which perched the fly- if perched is the word- and simultaneous to this kick, or as near simultaneous as to make no difference, off flew the fly.