It is raining today. When I woke up, there was already a message from my brother sharing this, asking if it rained in this town, too. It did. I walked to the kitchen, to a calming view—one I hadn’t seen yet from this new apartment—the hills in a dark navy blue, solid like a swatch you’d select to get a bucket of paint, almost like it was painted by a child who had just started out, with no concept of highlights and shadows yet, painting them in the most earnest sense of the act and being liberal with the amount of colour they use. The morning has gotten on since then. I have answered calls about two deliveries and one installation. I remembered that the rug the dry cleaners promised would get picked up was not, in fact, picked up. And then, I looked at the time to realise I had missed most of the morning. Making coffee, I panicked a little, then caught my breath and realised that the worst that could happen was some minor disappointment at work, a manager or some such in the chain of command will have something to say, and then, we will all agree to finish things as soon as possible. I could not let that colour the whole day. There is so much patience in us—if we give it a chance. What is done is done, and what is left will be done at some point. I must learn to master my breath and catch it before it begins to get away from me. It tends to take the day away with it, too. In the distance, I see the sun breaking out of the clouds. I believe the rain will stop soon. The city has gotten out of its languid morning—I see cars going to and fro in the glimpse of the street from between the trees; the echoes of the horns have begun to push the torpor of the moist morning away— I should follow suit, too.