It's 21:47. You got home at 19:20, and somewhere between that and now, the day finally stopped. You're sitting on the edge of the bed with your shoes half off.
And there it is again. The bathroom. Eleven minutes of standing under a light that makes you look worse than you feel. So you do what you did last night. A wipe, or nothing, and you tell yourself tomorrow.
Tomorrow has been saying that for two years.




