5 Dec

It’s the eternal irony of Sunday night- that there is no sun, but a cold winter crescent over frosty grass that sparkles in an echo of Orion’s twinkles above. Supper has been eaten, sausages cooked over the fireplace along with mulled blackberry wine, and dessert promptly forgotten due to an acute onset of food coma. (My stomach is still fervently protesting against my lack of common sense, so it’s probably a good thing that the s’more-making never happened.) Mini is curled up in her favorite spot (i.e. on my sweater that I previously threw on the ground in a moment of intense laziness), and is snoring a light Yorkie snore. Scott and Maya have withdrawn into their basement cave, and judging by the lack of cats around me, I presume Grandma and Fatty are there to occupy any vacant laps. We are all doing the same thing though, really. All waiting for the end of today, and the start of tomorrow, that it may come and go and be done with it. It’s the eternal irony of Sunday nights, which has bothered me since the days of having to cram the entire weekend’s homework into the last hour before bed. The night that is lived not as itself but as the dread of the coming day. The future’s shadow cast on the present. Monday impending. Monday. Moon Day. Sun Night. It’s all the same.


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