Wasted days and wasted nights

I need an at-home day today. This do a day's worth of chores, which might mean sweeping and catbox, then rest a day, gets me nowhere.
My apartment complex sags with age and disrepair. Dried foliage, the occasional cigarette butt and dirt driven by the north wind, enter under the front door. The complex allows pets. Most of the residents remember this complex when it was new. Two things in its favor.

* * *

Today I imagine myself crawling around on the floor trying to find all the pieces of a shattered crystal flute. I am bound to miss some pieces, but I keep trying because maybe, just maybe, I will have enough to reassemble it. I find foreign bits. Their addition changes the shape of my destroyed glass.

I fear after I put the pieces together, I will not have an iridescent vessel but an ugly, but cleverly cute, mug. Can I live with the mug? Can the pieces be separated? No. Because some of the tinest particles cling to the mavericks.

* * *

Does it ever end, dude?

Later.