Sunday is the last day of the wise president before the mad man takes over. It holds within it the semblance of normalcy, the last threads of sanity, before the insanity gushes in like a broken dam. Sunday is prayer before the sin. Sin because all you're doing is selling your soul and time to a cause that doesn't necessarily move you. Sunday is the shade from the unrelenting sun, the crumb of sense before the nonsense. It feels like the sun is always rising on a Sunday, when the ocean of time isn't regulated by the unforgiving minute and second, like the best is yet to come. On Sunday, you don't feel like a lab rat in a maze, running around looking for the answers to life that always seem to elude you. Sunday isn't a mirage, it's an oasis. It holds within it the promise of a Friday and the death sentence of a Monday. Sunday is the headache after the heartache. While you're always waiting for the work day to end, the wa...