writing on Sunday afternoon
Well, as I write this it is really early Sunday evening— in summer they all seem to run together, day and night.
There is something about writing on Sunday afternoons in the summer. It doesn’t feel the same at any other time of year, or even any other day of the week. There is just something about the feeling and the atmosphere that is like no other.
Maybe it is that Sundays when I was younger and not on my own, Sundays were a feeling of freedom (and were proceeded by cool and wondrous nights). I was all alone for a little while. It almost made things worth whatever else might have been going on for the rest of the time.
This is a sort of recapturing of that time, in a sense. I think ti is also the sunny weather that adds to the atmosphere. I write different kinds of things at this time of year, lighter, freer things. (I think I had better write as much as I can now, because if there is another winder like this last one…
The sounds are interesting, and often annoying. The loud people next door who apparently never went to sleep, which was a noise I expected to hear every summer, every day and night. But that is one should I will not miss. There are still those people somewhere on the second floor who still have young children who like to use their high voices very loudly and at just the wrong times. I wonder when they’ll move away…
Yes, I always feel more inspired in summer. I guess it is because there if for more stimulation all around. I had better squeeze the most out of it, because I am sure they will be getting shorter and shorter.
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