Everyday feels the same in the smoke of sunlight, in the dim silence of a shriveled moon. It is the same story.The newspaper falls on the same spot, the limbs of oak move lightly to the wind that comes from the same direction and the light hits the lamp-post exactly at the same hour everyday. But I stay around, with my mug filled with coffee rings. Not because of waiting. I gave up on that long ago. I stay around because I still cannot wrap my head around what you did and what you did not. It is a strange thing – our expectations. Even from a crisis.