Under the weight of numbed fingers I lay, unconvincingly asleep, as the world peers through my bedroom window. I look up through shadow-filled lashes. The pseudo-heroes, the deceived children, the tormented matchbox lovers who got caught in the undertow of life. My mind wanders and words leak out of my skull, seeping like black tar; they burn my skin like the sting of elusive flames.
“The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.”
― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance
There is a gaping void that only Sunday nights can trigger.