Then, March has come with a sine wave of birdsong, audible only at dawn. I'm getting carried away as it slides beneath my closed eyelids, but not for good, not far enough to lick my interrupted dream again. Some things changed, some haven't. There is a new bell within a 700-meter radius from the apartment, I can hear it while reading in my bed. It doesn't seem to have established tolling hours yet, so it's impossible to predict the next time I'm going to hear from it again. See, the thing is, when you're inhabiting the same space for almost three decades, it's hard to get surprised. I'm cheerful, I'm excited, then I'm not. Roaming around the ritual, sometimes I like to make a subtle alteration: leave the glasses in a different place, so that I need to look for them with my blurry eyes first thing in the morning. Put too little water in my coffee machine only to find out it makes the perfect amount of beverage. Light a white candle in the daylight. Let myself be seen, withdraw, then repeat. I can hear the birdsong again, but this time it's coming from between the pages.