We’re fucked, we’re all fucked, and no one will save our souls. We can’t save each other (or so we say, over lunch). We surrender ourselves tortured, stretched taut above the ocean. Transatlantic. This is what it feels like when the plane we’re flying finally crashes, and yet we’re almost calm, collected, wading through waves of crystal-blue tranquillity. A response by Beau Anthony Deurwaarder. The Identification of Meaningful Irrelevance: Now