I wrote a really long post about my dreams (literal meaning, I only just woke up) and anonymous letters and being a child but I've erased it all. It's a saturday afternoon (nearly evening) and I have no energy left to open such things. The house is quiet but I can hear my mom's fingers on the piano. Just the fingers, never the music. She keeps it to her ears. I can also hear the trains pass and, occasionally, the sound of the car honk blaring at a cyclist/pedestrian/self minded prejudice/another car.
Silent saturdays are not what I live for but at this point in time they're only satisfying. Better than numbers, better than geography, better than the search for a jewel toned cloud(ed judgement) of a friday night (the friday night). I think lazy saturdays are more justifiable than lazy sundays are. Sundays are bad for the soul. They turn me into the empty shells on shelves; the kind to sing the echoes of its first impressions of my home, the sea. Sundays should not be filled with the sounds of saturday's echoes, no. I think sunday should have a sound of its own.