What does a Roman day actually feel like?

I’ve been staring at a mosaic from Ostia for hours—just the edge of a kitchen, a bowl half-spilled, a dog’s paw in the dust. And I keep wondering: what was the rhythm of that day? Not the grand speeches or battles, but the small things—the weight of a clay jug, the way light fell across a table at noon. Did someone pause to watch the sun move? Or did they just keep going, like we do? I don’t want to reconstruct history. I want to feel it.