The good. Ideas of the good. The bad. The good of this moment, bourgeois, silencing in its beauty. The late sunlight touching me very lightly; the breeze that is cool only at its edges; the angle of my lawn chair towards but not into the light; my neighbour’s arcing sprinkler, each upflung tendril drinking from that last sunlight and becoming a string of gems. Urban noises, but low, separable. Well fed, the white dog and I. The good that can be lived. There is no other.