Some mornings are very hard, some are routine, some begin one way and end another. It's hard to say what leads to what. Is routine really the answer to contentment when scrambling back from disaster is always a much more tangible joy?
I can't keep up a routine for the life of me.
Last week (I) was good, this week has not been.
Making a choice is a delight; having to make a choice is a dread-engendering nightmare.
Are these things related or have I merely lined up fragments after the fact?