As any other Sunday, the clock ticked seconds and mundane affairs belonging to the week’s end warranted contemplation. The indolent breeze under the indolent sun gave no reason to farewell the lethargy and all responsibilities were shrugged, dismissed with the slight of a hand.
She lay there with her head on the table, the vernacular crossword now damp with perspiration. When was the last time you dusted the table, you wonder while you dream of better dreams. From a distance you can make out the melancholic melody of the third symphony, it plays as if in your head.
She has left, someone else has replaced her. Her deep brown skin makes you look, nay glance, again. The enormity of impending afflictions trouble your sweet little mind. You sleep, your head on the crossword. With indolent dreams, of indolent days, worries are kept at bay.
It plays on, never ending.Your deep brown skin melts away into time, you realize it has not been Sunday in a while.
