Every day felt like a Sunday to him.
It did not have the satisfaction of Fridays after having gone through the last of his shift for the week. It did not feel like the relaxed Saturdays when he had an almost guaranteed free schedule that could last until the early hours of the next day.
Sundays were the days when he felt the creeping restlessness of waiting for the next day to come, for something new to happen, a new start, a new week less than a day ahead. Although without the structure of the working life, the arriving of something that would break his endless last days never came, but he still waited.
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A few sentiments
PoetryEverything is in shambles, but that's just how it is with nonsense writings. It contains (very) short stories, poetry, and just words in general that are strung together and might or might not hold some meaning. Basically anything my sleep deprived...
