Where do these Saturdays keep coming from, and why do they so often pretend to be something that they are not? The inner workings of my mind don't always work consistently—they get distracted by softness and the bite taken out of a leaf, or by the argument that couple is having in the doorway of a church just before 7pm; how time can feel slippery, silver, whether or not we have already said that before, maybe even a thousand times.