The creaking door sounds like a cry left unanswered. Traffic rushes by like flies swarming the morning, every engine competing to be heard. A cat darts across the street, lost in the thrill of the hunt. Children pass by in their school uniforms. When was the last time I wore one like that? Morning longs to be quiet, but weekdays have never learned how to whisper. People limp in search of meaning, walking from shades of black toward white, only to find that certainty rarely waits at the end. Still, they keep going, even when their hearts feel out of place. Because what else can they do?