I wake up again, and I was having the nicest dream. My clock blinks twelve. I must be stuck in time. I lurch to the kitchen, drink my coffee, spill half away, and pace to work. There, the customers ramble. “Good day,” I say. “But–” “I said good day.” My workday ends with a sigh, and I weigh my frown on two bent elbows. A nice bath will cure everything. At home, I slowly inch into the steaming water. We are all so small. I think I must be a time-traveler, revisiting the same day over and over again. The same bed, the same dreams. The same baths, the same stars. You see, time is a loop of one day, and different things we do to tell the difference. Except me. The customers talk. “Hey,” I cry. “Have a good day.” At home, I fall into the nicest sleep.