Day 6. We wrote and we thought and we listened and we read and we wrote. And then the day was over, and the laptop screens snapped shut, and I wandered outside into the afternoon, up the streets of the afternoon, I stepped into the quiet market, I picked up a box of eggs, I picked up a frozen pizza, I bought these things, I smiled at the man who sold me these things, and then I wandered back into the streets, down through blaze and shade, past young people and U-Haul vans, past old people and old dogs, past a stack of free books, where I chose Harold Pinter's The Proust Screenplay for myself, past fading roses and yellow lilies, past forgotten construction cones stacked like party hats, and I came around the corner into my own small corner, the shaggy grass, the calendula blooming bravely in the sun's heat, and I walked up my own stoop and unlocked the door and then there I stood, in my kitchen, blue and white and cool, in its north-facing quiet.