About the work

There is a part of the day, an hour or two after everything has quieted, when the body does not quite remember what it just did. It holds onto some phantom gesture, a tremor that feels like the real work, but isn't. Not anymore. It is a slow hum, the kind you keep to yourself, or a set of motions that mean nothing but the fact of moving. The hands know what they are doing, even if they're not doing it for anyone, or for anything important. They just keep going, practicing some small, private discipline that isn't for the record, but keeps the record of what has just passed. The light stays on.