It is a quiet morning on a quiet day. There will be things to do, surely, and there will be time to get them done, and what will be left will be left for tomorrow. Little to worry about, little to fret over, it is all going as it should go. The coffee is delicious, almost lip-smackingly, wonderfully chocolaty and bold, and the sun outside shares a part in its boldness. What a warm and wonderful day today. I wish all days were like this, and if I found myself on a day that was cold and unforgiving, I wish I remember this morning then to push me through till the clock strikes fifty-nine past eleven. There is still time before this day begins, a few minutes or so, and when it does, its end should be but a blink away. That is how quickly life passes us, and I reckon without much notice. And thus I am glad for the good sense to sit here quietly and take it all in. Not all hours are created equal; some hours pass more quickly than others. This placid, noiseless time that I have managed to make the most of is but a blessing in a day that requires all of my senses to be busy—with work, with people, with phone calls and messages, and a buzzing and boiling that cannot be described. But it will be the end of the day soon. It will all be over before I can manage to take a moment again. And now, I shall begin.