The city sleeps in on Saturday. In June the morning comes early, by seven thirty – my daily rising hour – the sun weighs upon the red tiled rooftop of the school building across the street and the leaves glisten below its brilliance. It is already hot at the stool by my window onto the world. The only sound breaking the bird songs is the motor of a trash collector dragging it’s load up the street; otherwise the street below remains deserted.

From my window, Saturday is a day like any other. There is no celebration to commemorate the end of the long work week. The is no hangover to cloud this view from my window onto the world. The days are marked by rain and sun. Blue skies bring a tinge of regret when I keep myself indoors, and storms bring a relief that I am sequestered inside by a force greater than my will. There are days when I must phone-in a report on my ongoing progress. There are other days when I remain wholly unaccountable for my schedule. Progress ebbs and flows.

The milestones are increasing infrequent. I count time in months and by the migration of the sun. The world outside anticipates a response, while I seldom anticipate the future. I rose this morning with purpose and I will sleep this evening with the solemn sensation of time slipping past; though I cannot say how long it has been.

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