The clock marches across the sky counting the hours of the day. I notice that the day is almost gone before it has begun. I had my hot vinegar and honey at 7. The morning is cool. The workers came early today. The bones feel better. Books are waiting to be filed, already read and forgotten. Oatmeal and raisin steaming in the clear cut crystal bowl waiting. Coffee, stark black as the night, cries out to be held while warm, but yet the pumpernickel bread is not toasted. The incessant nailing of wood on frames yet to be a home. The time had passed and I eat staring at the clouds, without a meaningful thought I could think. Just books and photos waiting. Unknown callers call and the clock sits at noon to rest. Photo albums put away and books filed on shelves to be given, donated, sold whichever comes along first. I find it does not matter. At 4, I will watch one TV program, then the weather as the clock sinks into another world I cannot see. Night will descend and envelop my world and yet another day.