It is a Sunday afternoon and the hours seem to drag, as they do on a Sunday afternoon. Too early for a shower, too early to start dinner, too early to slip into the comfort of flannelette.

Sundays are for shopping malls and supermarket aisles. Where we go to get lost and forget about our boredom among the bananas, the value pack of socks, a new type of cereal for breakfast tomorrow. It’s where purpose is as easy as making the choice between one brand of plastic-wrapped spaghetti to another.

There is joy in the small things on a Sunday afternoon. Even this feeling of endless time in this space is a privilege with a blanket on one knee. Stringing a few words together on a blog post is a delight. Grainy photos from the night before terrible, but perfect.

Conversations of the future are the present thing and my mouth is sore from opening and closing like a goldfish looking for new pebbles to suck on. My brain tired from beers and over-contemplation.

You could feel bitter on a Sunday. After reading the newspapers of beautiful people with beautiful manicured feet you may stare at your calloused feet and wonder what’s the deal here.

Or you could be okay with that.

I’m okay with that.


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