The thing called TIME.
When you don’t have to worry about time, you tend to notice/imagine/comprehend things that you wouldn’t have otherwise.
Take more than 7 minutes to pick an orange and you imagine that the ones that you aren’t selecting have some rare skin disorder.
Don’t hurry with your walk back home from the corner grocery store and you would notice the three new stray dogs in your locality. All of them hate you. Make your move, stop to say hello.
You could also experience something murkier than cute dogs and bright oranges. Like witnessing a neighbourhood extramarital affair; one that could get you killed. No ordinary death would do, a let’s-silence-her-before-she-spills kind of death. And if you must know, the man and woman in question could be above 70 years of age; but what has age got to do with love or for that matter, the ominous look, that yes-we-are-on-to-something look. And that’s the look, you get every single time, you look at them. And why do you look at them repeatedly? What else can you do, when you walk at 2.1 mph for an hour.