Some mornings, you’d awaken suicidal with the thought of starting it all over again.
The banality. The routine of day-to-day life.
But if you could just manage to amble outside, you’d usually find something–sometimes something as simple as a barn sitting sparsely visible in a fog–that would set you right again.
It was strange how it was the mundane that gave you fits, and it was also the mundane that lifted you up from them.