Imagine we are space explorers. We are a board our craft, far from home, hyper-galactic vagabonds in pursuit of life and meaning. We land on an exoplanet, slimy and cold, and our sensors detect some weird signals and obscure measurements, and something inside of us starts to shiver. Might this be real? Have we found life?

And suddenly, the sound of a horn. The horn hadn't been in years. Maybe ever, but everyone intuitively knew its purpose. They were to stop whatever they were doing and march to the village center to listen. To what, they didn't know, but something of undeniable importance for sure. So axes were laid on logs, fishing rods were cast aside, and piles of dough remained unkneaded.

One night in 2001, William Basinski sat on the rooftop of his apartment building in New York. I can only assume he was pretty tired. He had spent the whole night working on a project and was resting looking on as two planes crashed into the World Trade Center.