when i mentioned to my friend Bernardo that I was going to write about joy, he suggested I do an essay on the hang, 2 by which he means hanging out with no discernible purpose or goal, with no discernible end in sight. or maybe it’s more accurate to say that the conclusion of the hang will be bodily—having to eat or sleep—or relational—gotta go home to make dinner for my lady—or even earthly—damn, it’s getting dark and I’m on my bike, i better go, but before i do, lord, these fireflies. yo, have you ever heard nina’s version of george harrison’s “My Sweet Lord”? c’mon, let’s do that first, put it on the record player, it was don’s, you won’t believe this.