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The arrangement of objects within a given volume of space dictates the behavior of those active within its boundaries. Boats avoid rocks; words cling to pages; light finds, and then instantaneously flees from, surfaces. The body bends around space, is confined by composition; meaning settles on objects, arranged just so. Conflicts ensue. As you cruise down the coast in a small boat, you encounter a man who wants you to help him make something. He has not said anything to you, or even acknowledged that you're there, but you can tell, beyond a shadow of a doubt, exactly what he wants made. You rush to a different part of the boat and begin to work on his object: three empty beer cans, taped together in a row, for extinguishing cigarette butts. You approach the man proudly, holding up the object for him to see. You have never met this man, but he seems as familiar as an old friend. You suddenly realize that you're concerned about how he will reuse this object after it becomes full, and you try to ask him about it in a language that you speak badly. He smiles and answers in a thickly accented version a language you speak very well. He says something -- speaking more articulately, and with better grammar than you do -- about how you can detect imperfections in constructions like this one by making small holes in their sides and holding them up for (our friend) the wind to explore. You do not understand, but think that you will use this strategy in the future. - Lex Kosieradzki