You wake up, but you know what you think you can still stay in that 'hot corner you you are created.
listening out in the end you hope for rain, not much for a particular reason, just because you know so you have nothing to do and then give you the habit of thinking damp fog in November, this time absolutely not touch you. Sniff the air, maybe we are just the scent of coffee that someone sang, or wrote, but so what difference does it? Mal going when you get the coffee maker put it on yourself.
My Sunday morning would be so, but even if I promise, even if you put me there with all the goodwill (or fantasy), just look at the time I realize I'm fallen in a late mathematician, having run to wash, dress and get in the car, and no matter if the phone's clock strikes eight-and-eighteen.
So I run, I wash my dress, and I'm in the car, and the drizzle that first looked like a sweet illusion becomes a bloody reality, a reality that line along with the windshield wipers whip I do not remember ever to change, at least 'll give me the coffee, even if it is not a mocha, but a simple espresso bar.
The sheets of my Sunday are always undone, and as I get home at night I know they are there waiting for me.
Cold .
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