Sun, 18 January

Sunday, 6:30 PM The clouds have not moved in hours. I have not moved in hours. Somewhere between these two stillnesses a dinner got made, plates found their places, water ran hot over everything. There are ghosts in the periphery— envelopes, unanswered, a hamper with its mouth open, the laptop's blue sleep-light pulsing like something alive that I've agreed to ignore. I dried each fork slowly. I held each glass up to the window where the overcast made everything the same gray as the water. This is the day's own argument: that nothing needs to be finished, that finishing is just another word for Sunday ending, and I'm not ready for that either.