The pilot’s voice came on over the speaker on approach to Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. He ticked off a list of connecting cities and their corresponding gates—Jacksonville, Austin, Seattle.

“Los Angeles,” he finally said. I paid attention. “Dee twenty one,” which was clear enough, but there was a pause and on he went to say, “David twenty one.”

I cannot explain clarity if you have never experienced it. It is like a merge of all threads—stepping back to see the richness of the tapestry from corner to corner. All paths cross at all points. It makes sense.

The pilot’s voice was that of a clever fucking universe.

He repeated that name for several more gates. I did not visibly react, but thoughts came to me. Having just completed the second part of “A Clockwork Orange,” I briefly pictured an anonymous bloody face, as human as you and I. I thought to engage in a bit of ultra-violence and a round of the ol’ in-out-in-out. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

A man behind me spoke on the phone when we arrived. He was relaying instructions, including his arrival gate: “D as in David.” I smiled again. I thought ahead to Los Angeles and raising the kind of hell an epiphany demands of me. It would be like I never left.