Some days, there is not much to say. The day has been filled or planned, and nothing is left to consider except the act of living. There is the moment, and it passes into the next moment, and so on. Through this procession, life passes, and so do the days.
Perhaps, though, there is room to consider the activities of others, those with whom we have not talked in some of those days, those with whom we have not visited in more of those days. They have lives that pass equally and discard moments as surely as us. I want to call them, visit them again, so many of them, just to say hello and find out what they are doing. The act of living that consumes me deserves their thoughts, too.