It's only sunday ...
's so hard to write ... I want is a touch of originality, no copy and paste, only my words, background noise distracting me .. I want a white dot on the screen where you can lock me up .. where you can meditate, but it's Sunday, the morning spends slow, barely open his eyes when the phone starts to spread boring notes the usual alarm clock, which many times has thrown me out of bed, but Sunday was a different tone from other days, a tone almost suffocated, while the sun is still low in those five minutes I still try to hide between the covers, I know it's late, I already know I'll have to hurry, I know I'll be late, but this fails to disturb me and move me.
The mirror seems to reflect an image dull, unfocused and at times ill-defined and without a smile in a day as Misty, I do not care of the dress, I do not care of the beard, I do not care, hair is important take the car and leave, the journey is always what I know by heart, the music accompanies my unwillingness to drive in the day that awaits me ..
I already know what to expect this Sunday ... no surprises for me, is already established, already has a taste ... .. un'odore tone, he already knows he will die behind an X on the calendar, but what do you want? Sunday only ...
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