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 jug half-spilled, a dog’s paw in the dust. And I keep wondering: what was the rhythm of that day? Not the grand events, but the small things—the weight of a clay pot, the sound of someone else’s voice through a wall, the way light slants across a floor at noon. Was it slower? Or just different? I don’t think we’ll ever know, but I keep trying to listen.