Rain before work, the kind that makes the street look varnished. I stood at the window longer than the coffee required. Nothing was decided in those minutes, but the day that followed was better for them, and I have stopped asking that kind of time to justify itself.
Walked the long way home to finish a thought. It did not finish, but it loosened, which is often the useful part. Speed is good for errands and bad for questions.
What then is time? If no one asks me, I know; if I wish to explain it to one who asks, I know not.
The morning does not owe me clarity. I owe the morning attendance. On the days I remember which direction the debt runs, the work goes considerably better.
Nothing is ours except time.