On having no rehearsal

The poem goes on: we arrive improvised and leave without the chance to practise. It sounds like a lament, but the rest of it is not — it ends with two people smiling, arms half around each other.

If nothing repeats, then nothing is a rehearsal either. Today's ordinary conversation is not a draft of a better one later; it is the only version. That is a weight, and it is also the reason a plain day is worth the attention.