Where are we going? I was thinking reading We Live Here Now—books are strange. Reading, I wonder the same thing I do, waking or asleep, about the book, or the question of the narrative. Readers want to go somewhere. Readers need help. Reading about sailors being between life and death, like Schrödinger's cat. It makes sense now. That state of suspension. Books are wandering in the same civilized wilderness we are. I started reading Pinchbeck's post and I got lost in it. How can we even think in such a state?