Sound of a passing truck like a window shade drawing down on the day. Steady churn of the ceiling fan. One lamp’s skirt of yellow light. Every day shaves away another layer of integument—only later do we discover it to have been extraneous, with Emerson: It was caducous. One less layer of skin, one less defense; but also one more inch of distance from the stickiness of the world. Black comedy is the only news and to retreat, they say, is the only heroism. We live comfortably enough in midair, listening to the cries from street level. Don’t look down.