There is a profound, almost transcendental art form, a movement so primordial and yet so underrated that it is understood in its full glory and executed with the right grace only by true connoisseurs: the yawn, not just a fleeting opening of the mouth, not a hurried inhalation of momentary fatigue, but a grand, sweeping, widely drawn-out, bravuraly executed yawn—a yawn that is not merely functional but that rises like a ruler of the moment, that announces unmistakably that the time of boredom and lifeless activity must come to an abrupt end and that the only logical next step is to embrace the soft, soothing arms of rest.