The Sunday comes again. The ever growing premonition of too little rest of a tired, confused soul – the Sunday comes again. There will be another heartbreak come Monday morning, once I bid a sleepy and deeply reluctant farewell to her. Another week will begin with a humongous effort of dragging myself up and donning those fake clothes of the civilised. The days are piling up along with all the bits of inner revolt deep inside. The routine becomes too much of a practise and begins to resemble an eternal cage. The Sunday comes…