CHAPTER ONE — DAWN
The novelty has faded. The routine has not yet formed. A short essay on the morning light through venetian blinds.
06:14
First light arrives uncalled. The room remembers yesterday but cannot quite picture it.
CHAPTER TWO — MORNING
Steam rises in two diagonals from the cup, then forgets which direction it intended. A clock above the sink moves at a pace borrowed from yesterday. Outside, the post is late again, but a sparrow is on time.
The second day arrives wearing the clothes of the first. We pretend not to notice. The kettle clicks off. The light shifts one degree.
FIG. 02 — A SUNRISE, RECONSTRUCTED FROM MEMORY.
CHAPTER THREE — AFTERNOON
The second of anything is a quiet rebellion against the first. It says: there is more than one way through the hour. The afternoon is the day's editor, slowing the typewriter, crossing out the mornings claim that nothing changed.
From this side of the split, the morning looks small. From the morning, this side looked impossible. Both are correct. The day continues either way.
CHAPTER FOUR — EVENING
The day, having argued itself into a single panel, prepares its closing remarks. The line that once divided is only a thin stripe now, the kind of margin a mid-century printer would call negligible.
CHAPTER FIVE — NIGHT
The viewport, once cleaved in two, is a single dark panel. The second day is over. Tomorrow will open another seam. We will, again, choose a side.
— END OF DAY TWO —
SET IN BEBAS NEUE & LIBRE FRANKLIN. PRINTED IN VENETIAN AMBER & INK NAVY ON AGED PAPER CREAM. THESECOND.DAY, MMXXVI.