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Weak and sun
The Rage
On Sunday afternoons, the sun hits an angle that I just find unbearable. Winter, summer, regardless, there is a time on Sunday that I just dread. It calls out that the weekend is dying, and I am forced to tally up my accomplishments. No matter how fantastic, they are always found wanting.

I've long settled into the groove of the modern American adult - I work Monday through Friday, 8-4, with occasional holidays. Hell, I even like my job a great deal. But the last remaining moments of Sunday still fill me with a lethargic, disappointed sigh. Leaping back into routine is not something I look forward to often.

And there is just something about the sunlight itself. It falls weakly, hits the walls and floors with misfocused intent. It is a tarnished sort of gold. And it has been this way for me since I was very young, before I could talk to the wind and understood the power of human interaction with light.