The Sunday is warm and we know, we are not, too.
The smell of the body unbathed is clinging to this shirt and the shirt cannot rinse away the smell. The blurry distance between this ‘good song,’ and all the afternoon’s avarice to a missing loudness – this is how we punctuate a lousy conundrum. We refuse living because we are told to be fearful; we refuse to move because we are prideful of thinking. The Sunday is beating away and we are all refused. The disarray is a fixture and all the voices of singers will not succeed in drowning out the colorless colors. Sometimes, Sundays are pernicious with latent flirtations and literatures hidden in musky rooms and the old collections of memories. This Sunday, tepid is the sun as clocks debate between 4:30 or 4:45. Tepid is the room without the lunatic, dancing companions. Tepid is the day now dying, now submitting to a chancy non-eventfulness. Microsoft word is very cold.