Different evening, wrestling different tasks, pushing forth a backlog of things asking for attention, more or less pressing. Down on the streets, a trailer is being unloaded. Suitcases, backpacks, a box of toys. Conversations next to the main door. Returning, always a bit calmer and more quiet than starting out on an adventure yet to be seen. (A small candle and an incense, the proximity of kind, featherweight ghosts, and a thinking in chords even lacking inspiration to play any of them. Be well on your way into your night everyone, wherever you are.)
6pm and on. Later that Sunday. Trying to pick up what's left behind. Lighting a single candle, watching it cast random shadows through a dimly lit room. Somehow in need of music but unsure what to pick. Same for books. So the moment is quiet lazy contemplation, wrestling with a feeling of guilt again for not doing anything meaningful. Maybe that needs to be trained, too.