Tyler was pulling driftwood logs out of the surf and dragging them up the beach. In the wet sand, he'd already planted a half circle of logs so they stood a few inches apart ans as tall as his eyes. There were four logs, and when I woke up, I watched Tyler pull a fifth log up the beach. Tyler dug a hole under one end of the log, then lifted the other end until the log slid into the hole and stood there at a slight angle.You wake up at the beach.We were the only people on the beach.With a stick Tyler drew a straight line in the sand several feet away. Tyler went back to straighten the log by stamping sand around its base.I was the only person watching this.[...]I asked if Tyler was an artist.Tyler shrugged and showed me how the five standing logs were wider at the base. Tyler showed me the line he'd drawn in the sand, and how he'd use the line to gauge the shadow cast by each log.Sometimes you wake up and have to ask where you are.What Tyler had created was the shadow of a giant hand. Only now the fingers were Nosferatu-long and the thumb was too short, but he said how at exactly four-thirty the hand was perfect. The giant shadow hand was perfect for one minute, and for one perfect minute Tyler had sat in the palm of perfection he'd created himself.You wake up and you're nowhere.One minute was enough, Tyler said, a person had to work had for it, but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.
Fight Club. Chuck Palahniuk. Vintage books 2006
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