We felt the black blood of Dostoevsky and descended the dark stairs of Derrida and Sartre. Some nights, we would just sit across from each other and stare, estranged by the cold of a new, uncertain world. After one of these nights of existential fog, as I got up to go, I turned to Dan and said, ‘The only meaningful thing left to do in this world, it seems, is to sit quietly with a friend until dark and then say goodnight.’