Her unfocused vision settled on the crosshatch patterns silhouetted, and hazily endeavoured to tag a time to the world beyond it. The column of light permeating the chiffon material was good; it warmed the usual thoughts of passing up breakfast and lunch in favour of more shut-eye – which only served to fuel her unwillingness to do anything at all – and balanced out the cold air. More than just saturday, it was essentially the only day of the week that she could, and would, lay absorbing the view, figure if it was eight in the morning or late afternoon, and maybe lose sight of it for countless more times.