The day's quiet.

It wasn't at all a quiet or contemplative day, though now I'm feeling as though it should have been. Or at least more so. Instead it was a day of flurry and chat, of earnest assertion and wry remark, of work barely begun before interruption's arrival. A day of living aloud, rather than to myself. But, in the background, the musing, alone and with others, to ourselves and to anyone who could hear. Not least on the juxtaposition, once again, of beauty and pain. Not least on what we do not know, and what we cannot, and how fragile that makes and leaves us.