Some days begin more slowly. The morning arrives like a thing on wheels, an apocalyptic engine heralding the day's doom. Plodding through sleepy, cracked eyelids to see early winter's dark gloom is the first unjustice; bitter floor that shocks warm feet is the second.
Perhaps the day goes on like this. A shoelace breaks. The ice on the windshield has strong fortifications, and you're already running late. You're convinced the commute is one sentient being, rising up against your well-meaning rush to crush what little spirit is left.
And the work day hasn't even begun.
So the day might continue indefinitely, until you lie down to sleep again, exhausted. But perhaps there's something there, something early on, that breaks through the crust of disgruntlement you've used to shield against bombardment. Perhaps all you really needed was one bit of glory--one moment of peace.