Ah, a Saturday with no fires to put out, only words to write, only streets to walk on, only films to watch and books to read. This is precisely what I was looking forward to, like a child looking forward to the ice cream truck appearing from the far end of the street after hearing the first jingle in the distance. But of course, there is always something to do, and if it is not something that chips at your mind like a thousand miners slamming their pickaxes at a stubborn rock, then it is something that exhausts you for no reason other than that you are one person who can only do so much. I reckon my life is an oscillation between greater things to do—not to strive for greatness, but for some stubborn writ, imaginary, in my head, and unwritten, of course, but with strict instructions telling me to never pass up on a chance to do something, anything—and the banal trifle of being a person—the laundry, the cooking, the dishes, the cleaning, what have you. And then, there are days—no, hours—like the ones I am in right now when I am, like the pendulum on an old clock, right in the middle. And then, of course, like the same pendulum that experiences this joy for a second or so before it swings, out of its volition, to the other end, and to and fro, and to and fro, it moves until it gives out or the clock gives out, running it out of time, like that pendulum, my fate, the course of my life is sealed, too. And I shall forever look for that temporary suspension in the middle, like today, like the early hours of a bland Saturday, like the hour between three-thirty and four when the sun is out and about but is on the precipice of diving headfirst into all the nothingness we could ever imagine with a fading amber glow, like the moment your destination is arriving as you notice the car slowing down, and how you wish with all your heart that it would break down right before, a few steps away so you get a moment for free, without paying in mind or body, without anything at all, only the natural luck of it all, like that extra day on a leap year because we could never find a neat, logical way to wrap the quarter left hanging on all the others.