At first things collide, collude, drive you along. Only later do they begin to “fall apart.” You move in a kind of trance, the blind trust that day after day brings somehow usable experience, and that even if you are only waiting, something is bound to happen that will clarify just what was all along at stake. But it is a privilege to speak of one’s experience as though it were unique, not quotidian, not irreducibly ordinary. In complex moments when my window frames an indigo dawn, or the lunch-hour inferno, or a sunset of profound silhouettes, nothing can be further from the truth.