The flat is dark except for the lamp. I meant to write earlier but the day had its own shape and I let it. Cooked the lentils properly this time — low heat, no stirring, the way Ma does — and they came out right. Read two essays after. Nothing urgent. I keep noticing how rare it is to have a day that asks nothing of me, and how I never know what to do with it when it comes. So I did the small things slowly, on purpose.

Same trade as always — sleep for a few hours that feel like my own. The city was very quiet at midnight, the kind of quiet you only get in August when people have left. I walked to the river and back without my phone, which is something I should do more often. Came home and read until I couldn't focus on the lines. Tomorrow I want to start the morning without it.

Got there early enough that the stalls were still being set up. The tomato man gave me the good ones because nobody else was buying yet. Took the long way home. I think the reason I like markets is that nothing there is trying to be anything — it's just food, and people, and money, and the morning. I should write here more. The day feels different when I do.