The hours.

1. Crushed cardamom seed and star anise, a cube of raw sugar, a drop, two drops, of vanilla. Hot milk.

2. Dress, or half dress, for the first half of the day. Draw the duvet up to the very chin of the pillows. Hang up yesterday's skirt. Assemble the tasks, and turn away from them.

3. Rinse the cup. Estimate how long it will be before the Christmas roses are beyond beauty.

4. The hour of the first task and the hour of the second task.

5. Hunger means it's time to go to the gym.

6. The flat screens are filled with judges and shamans and rednecks and Friends, all of whom seem to be wearing too much bronzer. Joey and Rachel are having their fling, the briefest of all the Friends' flings. It is a tender pathos, for their love will not last. It drifts from that screen hoisted up on high to me, on the back row of the treadmills.

7. The window open for the two o'clock drive home.

8. The speech therapist and the historian, discussing his voice.

9. At the store, I remembered to buy fennel fronds, peppers red yellow orange, Triscuit, a baguette, and I found, serendipitously, ground red chocolate. Even so, I forgot the honey.

10. Task three.

11. The trimming and peeling of the vegetables.

12. Olive oil, mushrooms, peppers, onions, basil, parsley. The leftover sauce from last week. Linguine. Grated parmesan.

13. Tasks four and five. In another room, the Jazz blitz the Bulls.

14. Grinding away at the last, a delicate instructional task. I snap screen grabs and drag them into a frame, fuss and fiddle with them till they are right, or right-ish. Is this what I meant when I said "game-ify this learning activity"? My wrists hurt and my confidence in this particular performance is thin.

15. Dog dithering and dalliance around whatever odors present themselves in the guise of crusted snow and frosty grass.

16. And this, these sentences, the last of the day.