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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 wait for a cab to end, the wait for a table to end, the wait for the bill to end, the wait for another senseless meeting to end, you never want Sunday to end. Like butter, you want to it spread, make it reach every nook and cranny. 

Sundays are the hibernation before the hunt.

It is the main dish while all the other days are just ingredients.

Sunday is the gift before the curse, the calm before the storm.

Sunday is like chocolate, it has very few critics.

It’s the moment of clarity before the rush, the snooze button before the alarm whips you out of your revelry.

While we profess by Sunday, we are all stuck on a day that can’t even be found on any calendar but can be found in every person – Someday. Someday we’ll look forward to Monday and Tuesday just like we wait for Sunday like we used to wait for the first day of summer vacation. Someday, everyday will feel like Sunday.

Sunday is the bookmark before the page is turned again.

Sunday is retribution, the day before you go on trial again. 

It's the parole before you begin to serve your sentence again. 

Sunday is the dessert, the lottery, the fad diet, the miracle drug, the day on which you pin all of your hopes, the day that will make it all okay. 

Soon, Monday will come knocking. You'll push against it with all your might, like it were some intruder that will go away if you pushed it back and didn't let it in. 

Sunday is the freestyle before the template, the sharpening before the cutting and pasting. 

Sunday is the spring before the autumn, the poem before the rote. 

Mondays are a haze, Tuesdays are the chugging of a long train, Wednesdays are like the first rays of Sun, Thursdays are like the first sip of beer, Fridays are like a long lunch, Saturdays are like the interval of a thriller movie. 

Sunday is the ice cream. Before you can savour it fully, it has melted. 


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