4pm and on. On the road. Noticing clouds veiling the sun, or sun piercing through clouds, not sure which way things are heading and who's been there first. Also: The never-changing mood of roadside attractions. Details that usually go unseen. Details that form a world of its own. Including, but not limited to dry thistles. Broken bottles. Stones.
Closing in on 4pm. The big and the small, the desire to repair things left unfixed for too long - and the struggle of wading through metaphorical mud and swamp. Not even daring to imagine what else might be hidden in there. (Train tracks, wagons, screeching brakes and a station halt always nearby. Cloud gazing, slightly at odds with oneself.)
4pm and on again. Switching facets of oneself, reloading that other part that relates to different daily aspects. Heading for the city, crossing bridges and the river, passing other places. New green new bloom and some hidden mud and dust in between. Skies too bright, traffic too loud. The afternoon is not waiting for anyone to catch up.
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.)