Walked to the refrigerator to get some water but saw a bottle of wine and could not resist. Took it out and poured a glass and sat with some music playing. Kept the bottle near the couch in case there was a need to top it up. The sun seems to have tucked itself into a good night’s sleep already. The moment, I suppose, passed me by when my nose was deep into work that matters to a degree. Thought to take a stroll but gave up on the idea remembering how I slept for only a ballpark of about three hours. I ought to not be this stressed. I reckon that is what I realised today, that my worries are all imagined and only exist in my mind. I only ought to make my life lighter and put this necessary evil of a job into its place. I ought to put it into its bounds before it begins to bleed into the rest, before it begins to bleed into the other parts, before it destroys any ounce and semblance of peace I have come to know. I must sit here and finish this glass of wine and hope for more days like this one than days of grandiose achievement. There will be many of those. There will be time for those. I must not rush. No, I must not rush at all. Time for another glass. And then, she will be home. And then, it will all be fine. The simple life I aim for, I must begin creating it for myself. And I think I will begin now—in this well-rounded, fruity moment full of wild swirls of fruit. At least, that is what it says on the bottle.