Frankly, I do not feel like putting words down today. The whole day has been topsy-turvy and turned on its head, and it has been scrambled worse than a batch of eggs that were supposed to be an omelette but broke down the middle. It has not been kind in that the turgidity has spilt well into midnight, and now, I must furnish something to call it a day quite like an assignment written too late and possibly with half a heart. But I am the only one who carries the blame, and I am the one who has been in disarray since I awoke. For there could have been pockets of peace, and I squandered them like we often squander minutes that turn into wasted hours, which in turn become wasted days. Then, we sit to complain over a pitcher of beer or a bottle of whisky. “Where did the time go?” We ask. “Where indeed?” A stranger answers. No one knows. Everyone knows. And that is how, I reckon, this day has been. It could have been different had things happened differently; days are often only as simple and as complicated as that sentence. And now, I must sit and assume all is right now that it is time to shut my eyes, and I hope, ever so earnestly, that tomorrow will be different. Or at least, that things will go differently, that I will touch the hours softly and not break them through the middle and cause the yolk to spill into everything else. But at least there is tomorrow. Yes, at least that is true.