Some mornings arrive without any ambition. The light is there, technically, but it never quite commits. The streets feel flatter, conversations quieter, and even colours seem to lower their voices. I like imagining that the sun simply called in sick one day—not as a catastrophe, but as a reminder that even the brightest things deserve a pause. We expect constant brilliance from ourselves too, as though rest is an interruption instead of part of the process. Maybe creativity follows the same rhythm as weather. Some days are for shining. Others are simply for gathering enough warmth to return tomorrow.