In the evening, after my brave battle with the ants that lasted more or less the entire morning, after the proceedings of a general workday in the afternoon, after the rushed care of my body and mind, I walked to get a cup of coffee before heading on into the night. I walked for fifteen minutes in the cold of March; the patio cafe, my regular haunt—and it is a haunt, for I simply sit there with a cup of coffee, thinking, like a ghost who may as well not be there on the white-enamel painted chair—was closed. A rare sight! But such is life. Rare things do happen. And there will always be tomorrow. And if it remains closed then, too, well, there are always more directions to take a fifteen-minute detour. Much disappointment in life is in a hurry; it is fleeting in the most literal sense of the word, like a bird which flies through a window. We cage it in, we shut the window, we prevent it from flying away. And I believe I talk high and mighty today, but I have done this enough to warrant compunction as I put this down. But much wisdom in life waits. It sits right across from us, day after day, for us to take note of it. It is us who assume it to be in the invisibility of the scenery. Well, it seems, today, I have taken note.