here of a sunday morning.
neither less hectic, nor more hectic.
see the coloured counties.
and hear the larks so high.
about us in the sky.
i love.
and i would lie.
sunday. it is melancholy.
sunday.
the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
gloomy.
but.
nothing is so musical
as the sound of pouring coffee for the first drink on sunday morning.
i smell you.
poor sunday.
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