June 3, 2012
Nicodemus couldn’t sleep. His digital alarm clock must have been broken, because the minutes just wouldn’t go by, glaring red and wiggly at him in the darkness. He’d tried all of the sounds on his white noise app: the grandfather clock, the lapping waves, the crickets, and, far from lulling him back to slumber, they were driving him out of his mind. F. Scott Fitzgerald once said that in the dark night of the soul, it is always 3am. That is also the hour of most ontological crises, of the sort Nicodemus was having. Was everything he believed, everything he had worked for, everything he had taken as gospel, wrong?