A week.

How much can happen in one week; lives beginning, lives ending, startling revelations, humdrum monotony. Which is worse, all things considered: that which we can't control or that which we can, but for one reason or another, choose not to? Or are afraid to?

Another week gone to dust, fading to insubstantiality in mere heartbeats. Live for the end of the day, live for the end of the week. Start again. End the month. End the year. Start again. I think I was 16, once, but I can barely remember.

Where's the roses when you want to stop and smell them? Bah.

I'm tired. I'm bruised. I'm going to bed.