Full moon tangled in branches over our street, like the arms of gravity that keep our satellite moving in time with us, marking that time, perpetuating a perfect and perfectly unequal relationship; yet both bodies, in the end, are primarily reflectors of light. There is no foreseeable end to any of this. Labor, in Arendt’s sense, swallows work: making the bed, doing the dishes, folding laundry take the place of anything enduring, singular, nonrenewable. As for politics—as for the agora—as for the public sphere in which one might exhibit one’s excellence, one’s valor…. The world and his wife sleep on.