The day ends on purpose,
or it gets stolen.
Seven or eight minutes: settle, review the watch, pray, and hand the day back. Nothing here is saved — your paper log keeps the record; this just walks you through it.
One rule: when the lamp goes out at the end, so does the phone.
Three slow breaths.
Breathe with the flame — in as it rises, out as it falls. Let the day's speed drain off before you review it.
The thoughts that came to the door. The lies you recognized — by name if you can. The moments you saw yourself in time, and the ones you only see now.
Where did the drill hold — noticed, named, refused, turned? Where did you couple, consent, fall? If you fell: how fast was the return? Is there a call or a repair still owed tonight?
Name tomorrow's likely visitor — the device, the hour, the trigger. A watchman who knows what's coming has already half-won. Then three thanksgivings, out loud, specific.
Prayer selection pending clergy review; your priest's evening rule replaces or extends this page.
The day is offered,
not stolen back.
Watch the lamp. When it goes out, the watch is over — Someone keeps it while you sleep.
Goodnight, watchman.
He giveth His beloved sleep.
