The rain against the windowpane is the only sound in my apartment. I’ve spent the morning attempting to arrange the books on my shelf by color, an exercise in control that my mind apparently needed. The result is aesthetically pleasing, a perfect gradient from black to white, but it’s completely useless for finding anything. A quiet metaphor for how I often present myself, perhaps. Ordered and calm on the surface, all the useful, complicated things buried where no one can easily see them.