The evening deepened. The games were played, the food was eaten, and the events moved along their planned course, drawn by invisible threads, traveling along hewn tracks.

Noah rubbed his eyes sleepily on the sofa, stubbornly worn, reserved for children who were not at all tired. He had refused to go to bed a number of times, as is customary for a grandson whose parents are not at home, his grandmother serving as a visiting-supervisor in his own house. He was inevitably progressing toward a point where he would have to surrender and go, showered and fed, toward his bed. His defiance was failing him; contrary to his earlier judgment, sleep was becoming increasingly inviting.

A while back, I was finishing an extremely challenging BJJ roll with an enthusiastic, overly athletic 22-year-old. We talked about injuries and movies as one does in most BJJ sessions, and I've mentioned Fight Club as the original blueprint for what we were doing. The guy had a blank face. No response. I asked again. Nope, nothing. Never heard of it. I urged him to watch it as soon as he could 'cause it would definitely blow his mind. He said he would, and I basked in the soon-to-be glory that would be bestowed upon me once his mind was fully and utterly blown. 

A week went by, and we met again on the mats. "So??? Did you watch it?" "yeah… most of it… once it was clear they were the same guy, I kinda lost interest, I've seen a million of these."

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.