![]() ![]() Reminded of all our delectable frailties, we become vulnerable as prey. ![]() In the dark, it’s hard to tell friend from foe. On starless nights, one can feel like a loose array of limbs and purpose, and seem smaller, limited to what one can touch. Thanks to electricity, night doesn’t last as long now, nor is it as dark as it used to be, so it’s hard to imagine the terror of our ancestors waiting for daybreak. Dawn is the wellspring of more light, the origin of our first to last days as we roll in space, over 6.684 billion of us in one global petri dish, shot through with sunlight, in our cells, in our minds, in our myriad metaphors of rebirth, in all the extensions to our senses that we create to enlighten our days and navigate our nights. ![]() “More light!” Goethe begged from his deathbed. “When it is dark, it seems to me as if I were dying, and I can’t think anymore,” Claude Monet once lamented. AT DAWN, the world rises out of darkness, slowly, sense-grain by grain, as if from sleep. ![]()
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