In little instances of mild discomfort, I am comfortable. Only in the middle of my chores do I feel truly alive. I believe there is something to say about the normalcy of my life. I could wager it will be said when I am no longer living it. Because whatever I, myself, can say is and will sound conceited. And thus, I shall wait for when I am here no longer. Not to say there is any sense of urgency in this, and I have not been one known to be impatient. It simply is a hopeful assertion in some sense. Sitting here, thinking about the day that is ordinary in all of its measures—even the pitfalls and potholes—and writing these words brings me some sort of soft solace. And now, it occurs to me that I have dampened the mood. No, I do not mean to sound ungrateful for the life I have or eager for my demise. I reckon my saying this suggests the opposite. It suggests I am at peace with where it all is, where the dominos have fallen, and where the days are heading. Things have occurred in this life, and sometimes, this life has happened to things. There is a galore of memories, of great emotion, of fantastic tragedies and glorious triumphs, and there shall be more; there shall be more tomorrow, intervaled only by hours of nothingness, of dishes, and of vacuuming and laundry and dusting, hours and hours of it.