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There is something quietly reassuring about knowing that the small systems

There’s a subtle relief that comes from moments where nothing is

The morning didn’t arrive so much as fade in, like background

Some days don’t make a fuss about being remembered. They don’t

There’s something oddly comforting about routines you didn’t plan. I hadn’t

The morning started with the sort of confidence that only exists

The day moved along without offering any sense of direction. It

Some days don’t follow a straight line. They wander, pause unexpectedly,

The day began with the confident belief that I had plenty

Some afternoons seem to exist purely as background. They don’t arrive