4pm and on. Powered down this week. Stored whichever unfinished scribble was left behind in a huge book. Closed it. Locked it. The hum of the afternoon rush, the close encounters of other people on their way, the sneaking through traffic to finally make it to the valley again.
(Too: Closing browser tabs the night left open. Unsure which random insights led into the murky world of old Unix derivatives and same as old VAX machines. The model doesn't know either. Maybe that odd nostalgia about technology being both advanced and still archaic, that roots in yesterday while increasingly overwhelmed by the new walls of todays tools and toys.)
4pm and on. Trains rushing by above, wheels echoing in the narrow concrete passage. Circumventing the crowded places, finding paths both short and inspiring and still trying to feel the sun, trying to avoid the cold. Also: Of inner voices and not listening to any of these.
4pm, changing context changing places and afternoon almost turning night again, at least in its perception of brightness. These are the weeks where winter and spring are entwined inseparably and ones soul keeps bouncing back and forth between both. Too much caffeine, too much thrust.
4pm and on. Unexpected thunder followed by uncanny serenity. A sip of water, a line of documentation, a process defined but rarely used. More open ends to pile up, more moving priorities as todays late task.