Maybe this was the meaning of life: to live in the darkness of Plato’s cave and stare endlessly into the void, but to make pancakes and watch Woody Allen movies and look at the sun coming through the skylights. Those were the comforts not of having true knowledge of the world, but of being a part of it and being amazed by it. I made my pancakes and took them up to the roof, where I ate them under a vast canopy of blue sky. A mile away, I could see city hall and the Twin Towers. A few clouds blew across the sky, casting shadows on the towers. I couldn’t profess my unwavering faith. I couldn’t
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