Sunday feels like a boundless exhale. My fingers are swollen, stained - I am an unapologetic mess. My mind feels like it has been submerged deep, decluttering - translating conversations with myself. I study each mark - some deliberate, most not - bleeding from one page to the next. Lines exposing where I have been. Romance forms between hues. Sunday feels like champagne on the beach - digesting the previous week, a celebration. Sunday, you’re so damn good to me.