On the sill

The evening air is balmy, though a bit sticky. The moon, an almost full yellow orb gazes from above. In the interval between the instant the power goes and the backup is switched on, the air fills up with voices of noisy children flapping their arms and feet on the pool. The day hops by like a pixie in a hurry, without much out of the ordinary. There have been good sensations, but in retrospect, the same ones. The battles against the monotony of routine have less to do with the pace of life than its inertia.

Tomorrow shall be a new day.