The day I ceased to exist stood out only in its unremarkability. I woke up, did fifty jumping jacks, some squats, a few pushups.  I watched some porn on the internet, shook my head in disgusted titillation, and hopped into the shower. I emerged, dried, pulled on some faintly wrinkled khakis and a button down shirt, and drove to work.  I parked my car in the overpriced garage a block from the office. I walked to the office and went up the elevator. Utterly unremarkable. Boring. I slid my key into the office door and unlocked it. Just like I did every morning. I opened the door and walked in. And the lights didn’t come on. The office lights were connected to a motion sensor. The lights would usually click on as soon as someone, anyone, entered the room.  I entered the room and they did not come on. Maybe I hadn’t entered the room emphatically enough. I stood in front of the sensor and jumped up and down. I did a jig. Waved my arms. Nothing, nothing and nothing. Assuming that the sensor had malfunctioned, I finally reach out and turned on the lights. They clicked on bathing the beige room in fluorescent light. Victory. I settled into my chair, clicked on the computer and immersed myself in the day’s work. First I returned a few emails, then reviewed some spreadsheets.  Within minutes, the snafu with the lights had been buried under a flow of information and electronic communication. About half an hour into the day, my co-workers arrived. I absently noted that the lights clicked on just fine for them. “I thought the lights were busted,” I called out as Olivia, a petite slip of a girl who sat in the center of the office less...