Gemotions

He lay on his bed, the window open to the sounds of the renovation. The relentless rhythm of the hammering had become a strange form of white noise, smoothing over the sharp edges of his anxiety.

He traced the patterns in the plaster of the ceiling. He felt the soft weight of the duvet against his skin.

He had meant to start on his taxes. He had meant to run an errand. The hammering served as a sort of blanket, drawing him into a deeper peace. The world was busy, and he was content to simply rest, letting the day drift by.