Muss is a downling, one of the small, round, cloud-furred meadow-folk, and he keeps the Soft Meadow, the low corner of the Sanctum where the chamomile grows and nothing whatsoever is required of anyone. His whole working life consists of lying among the daisies being gently content, and he considers this not laziness but a specialism, which, to be fair, it is.
He trusts chamomile because it is the one flower on the shelf with no ambitions. It doesn't lift or brighten or invigorate. It just sits there, apple-sweet and faintly blue, being soft, and Muss, who is also just sitting there being soft, feels thoroughly understood by it.
He has heard that up top the Surfacefolk now need permission to rest, that they track it and score it and feel they're doing it wrong. This baffles Muss more than anything he has ever heard. 'It's resting,' he keeps saying, from the daisies, not getting up. 'There's no wrong way. That's the entire point of it.'
Has never been productive, has never felt bad about it, and considers this the correct arrangement.
