by taichi yamada.
i miss japanese literature - the quaint sentences, descriptive nuances, all painting a city of lost souls, of quiet efficacy on the surface and wanton loves on the inside.
and sunday night before we embark on yet another week. i'm not feeling the dread that used to envelope me on sundays last year. neither am i feeling the flighty joy of embarking on yet another week of challenges. life is and will be as it will be. sundays a year ago - bright skies and hot afternoons. how the thought of work would pass a damper on my soul and how my tired self sought sleep in the afternoons. and of how the street lights would already be bright by the time i woke up. and along with that, a sense of losing grip on time, on life itself, and perhaps, on myself.
but i digress, as always i do.
i don't want tomorrow to come because it will mean that the magical weekend has come to a close. that magical weekend where i felt alive. am i?
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